“They were, sir.  They rushed all over the house like demons let loose, and they even stole some of our things.  I lost a silver chain.”

“And what did the stranger say when you told him of this?”

“He smiled.  It did not seem to surprise him in the least, for after all his visit was the cause of the sudden breaking up of the party, wasn’t it?”

“And did you show him over the whole house?” I inquired.

“Yes, sir,” responded the servant.  “Curiously enough he had with him what seemed to be a large plan of the castle, and as we went from room to room he compared it with his plan.  He was here for hours, and told me he wanted to make a thorough examination of the place and didn’t want to be disturbed.  He also said that he might probably take the place for next season, if he liked it.  I think, however, he only told me this because he thought I would be more patient while he took his measurements and made his investigations.  He was here from twelve till nearly six o’clock, and went through every room, even up to the turrets.”

“He came into this room, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir,” she responded, with just a slight hesitation, I thought.  “This was the room where he stayed the longest.  There was a photograph in that frame over there,” she added, indicating the frame that had held the picture of Elma Heath, “a portrait of a young lady, which he begged me to give him.”

“And you gave it to him?” I cried quickly.

“Well—­yes, sir.  He begged so hard for it, saying that it was the portrait of a friend of his.”

“And he gave you something handsome for it—­eh?”

The young woman, whom I knew could not refuse half-a-sovereign, colored slightly and smiled.

“And who put that picture in its place?” I asked.

“I did, sir.  I found it upstairs.”

“He didn’t tell you who the young lady was, I suppose?”

“No, sir.  He only said that that was the only photograph that existed, and that she was dead.”

“Dead!” I gasped, staring at her.

“Yes, sir.  That was why he was so anxious for the picture.”

Elma Heath dead!  Could it be true?  That sweet-pictured face haunted me as no other face had ever impressed itself upon my memory.  It somehow seemed to impel me to endeavor to penetrate the mystery, and yet Hylton Chater had declared that she was dead!  I recollected the remarkable letter from Abo, and her own declaration that her end was near.  That letter was, she said, the last she should write to her friend.  Did Hylton Chater actually possess knowledge of the girl’s death?  Had he all along been acquainted with her whereabouts?  What the young woman told me upset all my plans.  If Elma Heath were really dead, then she was beyond discovery, and the truth would be hidden forever.