"Indeed! Do you know at all what it was he saw, and when, and under what
circumstances?" Mr. Shargeloes put these questions with more urgency
than Miss Twemlow liked.

"Really I cannot tell you all those things; they are scarcely of general
interest. My dear father said little about it: all knowledge is denied
in this good world to women. But no doubt he would tell you, if you
asked him, when there were no ladies present."

"I will," said Mr. Shargeloes. "He is most judicious; he knows when to
speak, and when to hold his tongue. And I think that you combine with
beauty one of those two gifts--which is the utmost to be expected."

"Percival, you put things very nicely, which is all that could be
expected of a man. But do take my advice in this matter, and say no more
about it."

Mr. Shargeloes feigned to comply, and perhaps at the moment meant to do
so. But unluckily he was in an enterprising temper, proud of recovered
activity, and determined to act up to the phosphate supplied by fish
diet. Therefore when the Rector, rejoicing in an outlet for his long
pent-up discoveries, and regarding this sage man as one of his family,
repeated the whole of his adventure at Carne Castle, Mr. Shargeloes
said, briefly, "It must be seen to."

"Stubbard has been there," replied Mr. Twemlow, repenting perhaps of his
confidence; "Stubbard has made an official inspection, which relieves us
of all concern with it."

"Captain Stubbard is an ass. It is a burning shame that important
affairs should be entrusted to such fellows. The country is in peril,
deadly peril; and every Englishman is bound to act as if he were an
officer."

That very same evening Carne rode back to his ruins in a very grim state
of mind. He had received from the Emperor a curt and haughty answer to
his last appeal for immediate action, and the prospect of another gloomy
winter here, with dangers thickening round him, and no motion to enliven
them, was almost more than he could endure. The nights were drawing in,
and a damp fog from the sea had drizzled the trees, and the ivy, and
even his own moustache with cold misery.

"Bring me a lantern," he said to old Jerry, as he swung his stiff legs
from the back of the jaded horse, "and the little flask of oil with the
feather in it. It is high time to put the Inspector's step in order."

Jerry Bowles, whose back and knees were bent with rheumatism and dull
service, trotted (like a horse who has become too stiff to