ashore from the Stella, at St. Heliers pier. But
one covered carriage had remained on the storm-beaten pier, braving the
rigors of this terrible night. "Never mind the luggage, man," shouted
the Professor to the driver. "Here's ten pounds to drive us over to
Rozel, to my home! And, I'll bait yere horses, put ye up, and give ye
a tip to open yere eyes." The hardy islander whipped up his horses,
and soon cautiously climbed the hill of St. Saviours, crawling along
carefully over the wind-swept mows toward St. Martin's Church. The
exhausted maid was fast asleep. Nadine Johnstone herself lay in a
semi-trance, while the fretful old scholar consulted his watch by the
blinking carriage lights, and then wildly urged the driver on. It was
long after midnight when they reached St. Martin's Church, with three
miles yet to go. A dreary and a dismal ride!

And all was silent, in the Banker's Folly where the old hall clock
loudly rang out twelve, rousing Mistress Janet Fairbarn from her first
beauty sleep. She started in terror as an unfamiliar sound broke upon
the haunting stillness of the night. The hollow sound of a smothered
cough in the Master's study, a man's deep-toned cough, unmistakably
masculine, aroused the spinster whose whole life had been haunted by
phantom burglars.

For the first time since her coming to the Folly, her loneliness
appalled her. "My God! There is the plate! The master away, and no
one near." Her nerves were thrilling with nature's indefinable protest
against the dangers of the creeping enemy of the night. A sudden ray of
hope lit up her heart. "Had the Professor returned?" He had the keys.
It would be his way. Yes, there was the sign of his presence. And,
so, timorously moving on tip-toe, she crept down the hall in her white
robes, and barefooted. Yes, he had returned, for she had left the
study door open. It was closed now. There was a pencil of light shining
through the keyhole, and, yet, silently she stood at the door, and
listened. There was the sound of muffled blows within. A panic seized
upon her. "Thieves, thieves--at last!"

Scarcely daring to breathe, she fled, ghostlike, up the stair, and in
a wild paroxysm of fear dashed into the room at the angle of the hall,
where "Prince Djiddin" lay extended upon his couch of Oriental shawls
and cushions. He was restless, and still dreaming, open-eyed, of his
absent love.

The young man leaped to his feet as the frantic woman, with affrighted
gesture