“I do not know at what moment it was, but some time when I was carrying Wynston, or laying him in the bed,” continued Marston, who spoke rather like one pursuing a horrible reverie, than as a man relating facts to a listener, “I heard a light tread, and soft breathing in the lobby.  A thunderclap would have stunned me less that minute.  I moved softly, holding my breath, to the door.  I believe, in moments of strong excitement, men hear more acutely than at other times; but I thought I heard the rustling of a gown, going from the door again.  I waited—­it ceased; I waited until all was quiet.  I then extinguished the candle, and groped my way to the door; there was a faint light in the corridor, and I thought I saw a head projected from the chamber-door, next to the Frenchwoman’s—­mademoiselle’s.  As I came on, it was softly withdrawn, and the door not quite noiselessly closed.  I could not be absolutely certain, but I learned all afterward.  And now, sir, you have the story of Sir Wynston’s murder.”

Dr. Danvers groaned in spirit, being wrung alike with fear and sorrow.  With hands clasped, and head bowed down, in an exceeding bitter agony of soul, he murmured only the words of the Litany—­“Lord, have mercy upon us; Christ, have mercy upon us; Lord, have mercy upon us.”

Marston had recovered his usual lowering aspect and gloomy self-possession in a few moments, and was now standing erect and defiant before the humbled and afflicted minister of God.  The contrast was terrible—­almost sublime.

Doctor Danvers resolved to keep this dreadful secret, at least for a time, to himself.  He could not make up his mind to inflict upon those whom he loved so well as Charles and Rhoda the shame and agony of such a disclosure; yet he was sorely troubled, for his was a conflict of duty and mercy, of love and justice.

He told Charles Marston, when urged with earnest inquiry, that what he had heard that evening was intended solely for his own ear, and gently but peremptorily declined telling, at least until some future time, the substance of his father’s communication.

Charles now felt it necessary to see his father, for the purpose of letting him know the substance of the letter respecting “mademoiselle” and the late Sir Wynston which had reached him.  Accordingly, he proceeded, accompanied by Doctor Danvers, on the next morning, to the hotel where Marston had intimated his intention of passing the night.

On their inquiring for him in the hall, the porter appeared much perplexed and disturbed, and as they pressed him with questions, his answers became conflicting and mysterious.  Mr. Marston was there—­he had slept there last night; he could not say whether or not he was then in the house; but he knew that no one could be admitted to see him.  He would, if the gentlemen wished it, send their cards to (not Mr. Marston, but) the proprietor.  And, finally, he concluded by begging that they would themselves see “the proprietor,” and dispatched a waiter to apprise him of the circumstances of the visit.  There was something odd and even sinister in all this, which, along with the whispering and the curious glances of the waiters, who happened to hear the errand on which they came, inspired the two companions with vague misgivings, which they did not care mutually to disclose.