uddenly his ear caught the
sound of slow and stealthy footsteps upon the stairs. His own lamp was
unlit, but a dim glimmer came from a moving taper, and a long black
shadow travelled down the wall. He stood motionless, listening intently.
The steps were in the hall now, and he heard a gentle creaking as the
key was cautiously turned in the door. The next instant there came a
gust of cold air, the taper was extinguished, and a sharp snap announced
that the door had been closed from without.

Robert stood astonished. Who could this night wanderer be? It must be
his father. But what errand could take him out at three in the morning?
And such a morning, too! With every blast of the wind the rain beat up
against his chamber-window as though it would drive it in. The glass
rattled in the frames, and the tree outside creaked and groaned as its
great branches were tossed about by the gale. What could draw any man
forth upon such a night?

Hurriedly Robert struck a match and lit his lamp. His father's room was
opposite his own, and the door was ajar. He pushed it open and looked
about him. It was empty. The bed had not even been lain upon. The single
chair stood by the window, and there the old man must have sat since he
left them. There was no book, no paper, no means by which he could have
amused himself, nothing but a razor-strop lying on the window-sill.

A feeling of impending misfortune struck cold to Robert's heart. There
was some ill-meaning in this journey of his father's. He thought of his
brooding of yesterday, his scowling face, his bitter threats. Yes, there
was some mischief underlying it. But perhaps he might even now be in
time to prevent it. There was no use calling Laura. She could be no help
in the matter. He hurriedly threw on his clothes, muffled himself in his
top-coat, and, seizing his hat and stick, he set off after his father.

As he came out into the village street the wind whirled down it, so that
he had to put his ear and shoulder against it, and push his way forward.
It was better, however, when he turned into the lane. The high bank and
the hedge sheltered him upon one side. The road, however, was deep in
mud, and the rain fell in a steady swish. Not a soul was to be seen, but
he needed to make no inquiries, for he knew whither his father had gone
as certainly as though he had seen him.

The iron side gate of the avenue was half open, and Robert stumbled his
way up the gravelled drive amid the d