he tell her? Perfect frankness, perfect confidence was out of the
question. To look back now, in the handsome, spacious house of his
parents, from the snug depths of an easy-chair, on the time he had
passed on and about the wharf by the docks, was so strange that Max
could hardly believe in his own experiences.

Who would believe the story of his adventures, if he himself could
scarcely do so? Would Doreen, would anybody give credence to the story
of the dead body that he touched, but never saw, the eyes that looked at
him from an unbroken wall, the girl who lured him into the shut-up
house, and then let him out again with an air of secrecy and mystery?

The transition had been so abrupt from the gloomy wharf, with its
suspicious surroundings and the heavy, fog-laden air of the riverside,
back to the warmth and light and brightness of home, that already his
adventures had receded into a sort of dreamland, and he began to ask
himself whether Carrie, with her fair hair and moving blue eyes, her
vibrating voice and changeful expression, were not a creature of his
imagination only.

He was still under the influence of the feelings roused by this dreamy
remembrance, when he snatched the opportunity afforded by Doreen's being
called away by Mrs. Wedmore, to go out into the grounds, on his way to
the stables. A ride through the lanes in the frosty air would, he
thought, be the best preparation for the trying ordeal of that
inevitable talk with Doreen, whose wistful eyes haunted him as she
waited for a chance of speaking to him alone.

In the garden a scene of desolation met his eye.

The lawns were torn up and trodden down; the gravel path from the
stables looked like a freshly plowed field; every tree and every bush
bore the marks of the marauder.

The head gardener was in a condition of unapproachable ferocity, and it
was generally understood that he had given notice to leave. The
under-gardeners kept out of the way, but could be heard at intervals
checking outbursts of derisive laughter behind the shrubberies. The
story of the Yule log and its adventures was the best joke the country
had had for a long time, and it was bound to lose nothing as it passed
from mouth to mouth. And poor Mr. Wedmore began to dread the ordeal of
congratulations he would have to go through when he next went to church.

Max felt sorry for his father. As he entered the stable-yard, which was
a wide expanse of flagged ground at the back of the