flames I place my caldron filled with the blood of a new-killed doe,
and as it boils I speak my incantations and make my mystic signs and
passes, watching the blood-red mist as it rises to meet the spirits of
Air. I chant my conjurations as I learned them from the Great Key of
Solomon, and while I speak, the ruddy fumes take human forms. Out of the
dark, fathomless Past--the Past of near four hundred years ago--comes a
goodly company of simple, pompous folk all having a touch of childish
savagery which shows itself in the fierceness of their love and of their
hate.

The fairest castle-chateau in all England's great domain, the walls and
halls of which were builded in the depths of time, takes on again its
olden form quick with quivering life, and from the gates of Eagle Tower
issues my quaint and radiant company. Some are clad in gold lace, silks,
and taffetas; some wear leather, buckram and clanking steel. While the
caldron boils, their cloud-forms grow ever more distinct and definite,
till at length I can trace their every feature. I see the color of their
eyes. I discern the shades of their hair. Some heads are streaked with
gray; others are glossy with the sheen of youth. As a climax to my
conjurations I speak the word of all words magical, "Dorothy," and lo! as
though God had said, "Let there be light," a fair, radiant girl steps from
the portals of Haddon Hall and illumines all my ancient company so that I
may see even the workings of their hearts.

They, and the events of their lives, their joys and sorrows, their virtues
and sins, their hatreds, jealousies, and loves--the seven numbers in the
total sum of life--pass before me as in a panorama, moving when I bid them
move, pausing when I bid them pause, speaking when I bid them speak, and
alas! fading back into the dim gray limbo of the past long, long ere I
would have them go.

But hark! my radiant shades are about to speak. The play is about to
begin.

Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall

CHAPTER I

I RIDE DOWN TO HADDON

Since I play no mean part in the events of this chronicle, a few words
concerning my own history previous to the opening of the story I am about
to tell you will surely not be amiss, and they may help you to a better
understanding of my narrative.

To begin with an unimportant fact--unimportant, that is, to you--my name
is Malcolm Francois de Lorraine Vernon. My father was cousin-german to Sir
George Vernon, at and near who