“The west wing—­is the west wing afire yet?”

“The wind blows that way, Stephen, and the flames are spreading.  I don’t think they could save it—­not if the engine was to come this minute.”

“But I tell you they must!” cried Stephen Whitelaw.  “If they don’t, it’ll be murder—­cold-blooded murder.  O, my God, I never thought there was much harm in the business—­and it paid me well—­but it’s weighed me down like a load of lead, and made me drink more to drown thought.  But if it should come to this—­don’t you understand?  Don’t sit staring at me like that.  If the fire gets to the west wing, it will be murder.  There’s some one there—­some one locked up—­that won’t be able to stir unless they get her out.”

“Some one locked up in the west wing!  Are you mad, Stephen?”

“It’s the truth.  I wouldn’t do it again—­no, not for twice the money.  Let them get her out somehow.  They can do it, if they look sharp.”

That unforgotten footstep and equally unforgotten scream flashed into Mrs. Whitelaw’s mind with these words of her husband’s.  Some one shut up there; yes, that was the solution of the mystery that had puzzled and tormented her so long.  That cry of anguish was no supernatural echo of past suffering, but the despairing shriek of some victim of modern cruelty.  A poor relation of Stephen’s perhaps—­a helpless, mindless creature, whose infirmities had been thus hidden from the world.  Such things have been too cruelly common in our fair free country.

Ellen laid her husband’s head gently down upon the grass and sprang to her feet.

“In which room?” she cried.  But there was no answer.  The man lay with closed eyes—­dying perhaps—­but she could do nothing for him till medical help came.  The rescue of that unknown captive was a more urgent duty.

She was running towards the burning house, when she heard a horse galloping on the road leading from the gate.  She stopped, hoping that this was the arrival of the doctor; but a familiar voice called to her, and in another minute her father had dismounted and was close at her side.

“Thank God you’re safe, lass!” he exclaimed, with some warmer touch of paternal feeling than he was accustomed to exhibit.  “Our men saw the fire when they were going to their work, and I came across directly.  Where’s Steph?”

“Under the trees yonder, very much hurt; I’m afraid fatally.  But there’s nothing we can do for him till the doctor comes.  There’s someone in still greater danger, father.  For God’s sake, help us to save her—­some one shut up yonder, in a room at that end of the house.”

“Some one shut up!  One of the servants, do you mean?”

“No, no, no.  Some one who has been kept shut up there—­hidden—­ever so long.  Stephen told me just now.  O, father, for pity’s sake, try to save her!”

“Nonsense, lass.  Your husband’s brain must have been wandering.  Who should be shut up there, and you live in the house and not know it?  Why should Stephen hide any one in his house?  What motive could he have for such a thing?  It isn’t possible.”