There were lights in two of the windows; and the smoke from several chimneys rose wind-beaten against the woods behind.  The moon stood immediately over the roof, and the shadow of the house stretched beyond the forecourt almost to her feet.

She lingered a few minutes, fascinated, gazing at this huge place where her father lived—­her father whom she had never seen since she was a baby.  The moon lit up her tiny figure, and her small white face, as she stood in the open, alone in the wintry silence.

Then, swiftly, and instead of going up to the front door, she turned to the right along a narrow flagged path that skirted the forecourt and led to the back of the house.

She knew exactly what to do.  She had planned it all with Hesketh, Hesketh, who was the daughter of a farmer on the Duddon estate, fifty years old, a born gossip, and acquainted with every man, woman and child in the neighbourhood.  Did not Hesketh go to the same chapel with Thomas Dixon and his wife?  And had she not a romantic soul, far above furbelows—­a soul which had flung itself into the cause of the “heiress,” to the point of keeping the child’s secret, even from her ladyship?  Hesketh indeed had suffered sharply from qualms of conscience in this respect.  But Felicia had spared her as much as possible, by keeping the precise moment of her escapade to herself.

She groped her way round, till she came to a side path leading to an entrance.  The path indeed was that by which Faversham had been originally carried into the Tower, across the foot-bridge.  Peering over a low wall that bounded the path, she looked startled into an abyss of leafless trees, with a bright gleam of moonlit water far below.  In front of her was a door and steps, and some rays of light penetrating through the shuttered windows beside the door, showed that there was life within.

Felicia mounted the steps and knocked.  No one came.  At last she found a bell and rang it—­cautiously.  Steps approached.  The door was opened, and a gray-haired woman stood on the threshold.

“Well, what’s your business?” she said sharply.  It was evident that she was short-sighted, and did not clearly see the person outside.

“Please, I want to speak to Mr. Melrose.”

The clear, low voice arrested the old woman.

“Eh?” she said testily.  “And who may you be?  You cawn’t see Mr. Melrose, anyways.”

“I want to see him particularly.  Are you Mrs. Dixon?”

“Aye—­a’am Mrs. Dixon.  But aa’ve no time to goa chatterin’ at doors wi’ yoong women; soa if yo’ll juist gie me yor business, I’ll tell Muster Faversham, when he’s got time to see to ’t.”

“It’s not Mr. Faversham I want to see—­it’s Mr. Melrose.  Mrs. Dixon, don’t you remember me?”

Mrs. Dixon stepped back in puzzled annoyance, so as to let a light from the passage shine upon the stranger’s face.  She stood motionless.

Felicia stepped within.