ncovered window of the room that he had left. The
stranger was walking rapidly. All Turlington could see as he crossed the
field of light was, that his hat was pulled over his eyes, and that he
had a thick beard and mustache. Describing the man to the servant on
entering the house, he was informed that a stranger with a large beard
had been seen about the neighborhood for some days past. The account he
had given of himself stated that he was a surveyor, engaged in taking
measurements for a new map of that part of the country, shortly to be
published.

The guilty mind of Turlington was far from feeling satisfied with
the meager description of the stranger thus rendered. He could not be
engaged in surveying in the dark. What could he want in the desolate
neighborhood of the house and church-yard at that time of night?

The man wanted--what the man found a little lower down the lane, hidden
in a dismantled part of the church-yard wall--a letter from a young
lady. Read by the light of the pocket-lantern which he carried with him,
the letter first congratulated this person on the complete success of
his disguise--and then promised that the writer would be ready at her
bedroom window for flight the next morning, before the house was astir.
The signature was "Natalie," and the person addressed was "Dearest
Launce."

In the meanwhile, Turlington barred the window shutters of the room, and
looked at his watch. It wanted only a quarter to nine o'clock. He took
his dog-whistle from the chimney-piece, and turned his steps at once in
the direction of the drawing-room, in which his guests were passing the
evening.

TWELFTH SCENE.

Inside the House.

The scene in the drawing-room represented the ideal of domestic comfort.
The fire of wood and coal mixed burned brightly; the lamps shed a soft
glow of light; the solid shutters and the thick red curtains kept the
cold night air on the outer side of two long windows, which opened on
the back garden. Snug arm-chairs were placed in every part of the
room. In one of them Sir Joseph reclined, fast asleep; in another, Miss
Lavinia sat knitting; a third chair, apart from the rest, near a round
table in one corner of the room, was occupied by Natalie. Her head was
resting on her hand, an unread book lay open on her lap. She looked pale
and harassed; anxiety and suspense had worn her down to the shadow of
her former self. On entering the room, Turlington purposely closed the
door wi