y bonnet; and I've run every
step of the way--for you are the only one, my Lord, as can soothe his
wounded spirit; and I've locked both the doors, and here's the key, so
he can't be gone till you come.'

'Locked the doors!' cried Louis. 'What have you done? Suppose your
mistress or Miss Clara were ill?'

'Oh, no--no, it is not that,' said Charlotte; 'or why should he flee
from the face of his children? Why, I took Miss Salome up to the top
of the stairs, when she was screaming and crying with all her might,
and you would not have thought he was within a mile of her. No, my
Lord, no one can't do nothing but you.'

'I'll come at once,' said Louis. 'You did quite right to fetch me; but
it was a frightful thing to lock the door.'

Sending Charlotte to the housekeeper, he went to communicate her
strange intelligence to his father, who shared his dismay so much as
almost to wish to come with him to Northwold; but Louis felt he could
deal better alone with James. His fears took the direction of the
Italian travellers, knowing that any misfortune to them must recoil on
James with double agony after such a parting.

In very brief space the carriage was at Northwold, and desiring that it
should wait at the corner of the Terrace, Louis followed Charlotte, who
had jumped down from the box, and hastened forward to unlock the door;
and he was in time to hear the angry, though suppressed, greeting that
received her. 'Pretty doings, ma'am! So I have caught you out at
last, though you did think to lock me in! He shan't come in! I wonder
at your impudence! The very front door!'

'Oh, cook, don't!' The poor breathless voice managed at last to be
heard. 'This is Lord Fitzjocelyn.'

Cook had vanished out of sight or hearing before Louis's foot was
within the threshold. The study-door was open, the fire expiring, the
books and papers pushed back; and James's fierce, restless tread was
heard pacing vehemently about his own room. Louis ran hastily up, and
entered at once. His cousin stood staring with wild eyes, his hair was
tossed and tangled, his face lividly pale, and the table was strewn
with fragments of letters, begun and torn up again; his clothes lay
tumbled in disorder on the floor, where his portmanteau lay open and
partly packed. All Louis's worst alarm seemed fulfilled at once.
'What has happened?' he cried, catching hold of both James's hands, as
if to help him to speak. 'Who is ill?--not Clara?'

'No--