I returned to Fairburn, and soon Sir Massingberd, finding that all correspondence with his nephew was interrupted by Harvey Gerard, began to pay small attentions to my tutor and myself.  At last he appeared at the rectory, and desired me to forward a letter to Marmaduke.  This—­finding nothing objectionable in the contents—­I agreed to do, and he departed, after inviting me to make use of his grounds whenever I pleased.  On the morrow I yielded to curiosity, and after wandering to and fro in the park, came near a small stone house with unglazed, iron-grated windows.  A short, sharp shriek clove the humid air, and approaching, I looked into a sitting-room, where an ancient female sat eating a chicken without knife or fork.  Her hair was scanty and white as snow, but hung almost to the ground.

“Permit me to introduce myself,” she said.  “I am Sinnamenta, Lady Heath.  You are not Stanley Carew, are you?  They told me that he was hung, but I know better than that.  To be hung for nothing must be a terrible thing; but how much worse to be hung for love!  It is not customary to watch a lady when she is partaking of refreshment.”

Then the poor mad creature turned her back, and I withdrew from the sad scene.  A day or two afterwards the post carried misfortune from me to Harley Street.  The wily baronet had fooled me, and had substituted a terrible letter for that which he had persuaded me to enclose to his nephew.

“Return hither, sir, at once,” he had written.  “It is far worse than idle to attempt to cross my will.  I give you twenty-four hours to arrive after the receipt of this letter.  I shall consider your absence to be equivalent to a contumacious refusal.  However well it may seem with you, it will not be well.  Whenever you think yourself safest, you will be most in danger.  There is, indeed, but one place of safety for you; come you home.”

Very soon afterwards, and before we knew of this villainy, word reached us that the baronet was lost, and could not be found.  He had started on his usual nocturnal rounds in the preserves, and nobody had seen him since midnight.  Old Grimjaw, the dog, had been found on the doorstep, nigh frozen to death.

The news spread like wild-fire through Fairburn village.  I myself joined the searchers, but soon separated from them, and passing the home spinney, near by which was the famous Wolsey oak, a tree of great age.  I heard a sound that set my heart beating, and fluttering like the wings of a prisoned bird against its cage.  Was it a strangled cry for “Help!” repeated once, twice, thrice, or was it the cold wind clanging and grinding the naked branches of the spinney?  But nought living was to be seen; a bright wintry sun completely penetrated the leafless woodland.  At last I came upon the warm but lifeless body of Grimjaw lying on the grass, and I hurried madly from the accursed place to where the men were dragging the lake.

No clue was found, and my tutor began to fear that the gypsies had made away with their enemy.  Word came that they had passed through the turnpike with a covered cart, and we rode out to interview them.  The old woman met us, and conducted us to the vehicle, when we found Sinnamenta, Lady Heath, weaving rushes into crowns.