“Yes,” he said eagerly, “I wish to see her.  You can take me to her at once.  I am an old friend.  There is no occasion to carry in my name.”

He had scarcely thought of seeing Marian until this moment.  It was her husband he had come to seek; it was with him that his reckoning was to be made; and any meeting between Marian and himself was more likely to prove a hindrance to this reckoning than otherwise.  But the temptation to seize the chance of seeing her again was too much for him.  Whatever hazard there might be to his scheme of vengeance in such an encounter slipped out of his mind before the thought of looking once more at that idolised face, of hearing the loved voice once again.  The woman hesitated for a few moments, telling Gilbert that Mrs. Holbrook never had visitors, and she did not know whether she would like to see him; but on his administering half-a-crown through the scroll-work of the gate, she put the key in the lock and admitted him.  He followed her along the moss-grown path to a wide wooden porch, over which the ivy hung like a voluminous curtain, and through a half-glass door into a low roomy hall, with massive dark oak-beams across the ceiling, and a broad staircase of ecclesiastical aspect leading to a gallery above.  The house had evidently been a place of considerable grandeur and importance in days gone by; but everything in it bore traces of neglect and decay.  The hall was dark and cold, the wide fire-place empty, the iron dogs red with rust.  Some sacks of grain were stored in one corner, a rough carpenter’s bench stood under one of the mullioned windows, and some garden-seeds were spread out to dry in another.

The woman opened a low door at the end of this hall, and ushered Gilbert into a sitting-room with three windows looking out upon a Dutch bowling-green, a quadrangle of smooth turf shut in by tall hedges of holly.  The room was empty, and the visitor had ample leisure to examine it while the woman went to seek Mrs. Holbrook.

It was a large room with a low ceiling, and a capacious old-fashioned fire-place, where a rather scanty fire was burning in a dull slow way.  The furniture was old and worm-eaten,—­furniture that had once been handsome,—­and was of a ponderous fashion that defied time.  There was a massive oaken cabinet on one side of the room, a walnut-wood bureau with brass handles on the other.  A comfortable looking sofa, of an antiquated design, with chintz-covered cushions, had been wheeled near the fire-place; and close beside it there was a small table with an open desk upon it, and some papers scattered loosely about.  There were a few autumn flowers in a homely vase upon the centre table, and a work-basket with some slippers, in Berlin wool work, unfinished.

Gilbert Fenton contemplated all these things with supreme tenderness.  It was here that Marian had lived for so many months—­alone most likely for the greater part of the time.  He had a fixed idea that the man who had stolen his treasure was some dissipated worldling, altogether unworthy so sacred a trust.  The room had a look of loneliness to him.  He could fancy the long solitary hours in this remote seclusion.