voices and the tramp of hurrying feet; and then he would knit his brow and clench his hand, with the apprehension that they had found his enemy, and were bringing him to the door.  Not the slightest fear of the consequences to himself in such a case agitated his mind; he had quite resolved what to do, and that no prison walls should ever hem him in again; but the bare idea that Solomon should escape his vengeance drove him to the brink of frenzy.  He would have left the place at once, but that he thought the coincidence of his departure with the disappearance of his foe might possibly awaken suspicion; so he staid on through the day, waiting for the news which he knew must arrive sooner or later.  At noon he thought the landlady wore an unusually grave air, and he felt impelled to ask her what was the matter.  But then, if there was nothing—­if she only looked sour, as folks often did, just because it was Sunday—­she might think him too curious.

From his window, a little later, he saw a knot of people in the rain talking eagerly together, and one of them pointing with his hand toward Gethin.  But they were too far off to be overheard, and he did not dare go down and interrogate them.  It was his object to appear utterly indifferent to local affairs, and as a total stranger.  He felt half stifled within doors, and yet, if he should go out, he knew that he would be incontrollably impelled to take the cliff path that he had followed the preceding night, to watch that nobody came near the place that held his prey, and thereby, like the bird who shows her nest by keeping guard too near, attract attention.  The tidings for which he waited came at six o’clock, just as he was sitting down to his dinner.  The parlor-maid who served him had that happy and excited look which the possession of news, whether it be good or bad, but especially the latter, always imparts to persons of her class.

“There’s strange news come from Gethin, Sir,” said she, as she arranged the dishes.

“Indeed,” said Balfour, carelessly, though he felt his brain spin round and his heart stop at the same moment.  “What is it?”

“Mr. Coe, Sir, a very rich man—­he as owns all Dunloppel—­has disappeared.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, Sir, he went to his room last night, they say, at his usual hour, but never slept in his bed, and the front-door was found unlocked in the morning, so that he must have gone away of himself.  That would not be so odd, for he is a secret sort of man, as is always coming and going; but he has taken nothing with him; only the clothes he stood in.”

“Well, I dare say he has come back again by this time, my good girl.  What’s this?  Is there no fish?”

“No, Sir; the weather was too bad yesterday for catching them, and all last night there was a dreadful sea:  that’s what they fear about Mr. Coe—­that he has fell into the sea.  His footsteps have been tracked to the cliff edge, and there they stop.”