“Are we far from St. Crux?” asked the captain, growing impatient, after mile on mile had been passed without a sign of reaching the journey’s end.

“You’ll see the house, sir, at the next turn in the road,” said the man.

The next turn in the road brought them within view of the open country again.  Ahead of the carriage, Captain Wragge saw a long dark line against the sky—­the line of the sea-wall which protects the low coast of Essex from inundation.  The flat intermediate country was intersected by a labyrinth of tidal streams, winding up from the invisible sea in strange fantastic curves—­rivers at high water, and channels of mud at low.  On his right hand was a quaint little village, mostly composed of wooden houses, straggling down to the brink of one of the tidal streams.  On his left hand, further away, rose the gloomy ruins of an abbey, with a desolate pile of buildings, which covered two sides of a square attached to it.  One of the streams from the sea (called, in Essex, “backwaters”) curled almost entirely round the house.  Another, from an opposite quarter, appeared to run straight through the grounds, and to separate one side of the shapeless mass of buildings, which was in moderate repair, from another, which was little better than a ruin.  Bridges of wood and bridges of brick crossed the stream, and gave access to the house from all points of the compass.  No human creature appeared in the neighborhood, and no sound was heard but the hoarse barking of a house-dog from an invisible courtyard.

“Which door shall I drive to, sir?” asked the coachman.  “The front or the back?”

“The back,” said Captain Wragge, feeling that the less notice he attracted in his present position, the safer that position might be.

The carriage twice crossed the stream before the coachman made his way through the grounds into a dreary inclosure of stone.  At an open door on the inhabited side of the place sat a weather-beaten old man, busily at work on a half-finished model of a ship.  He rose and came to the carriage door, lifting up his spectacles on his forehead, and looking disconcerted at the appearance of a stranger.

“Is Mr. Noel Vanstone staying here?” asked Captain Wragge.

“Yes, sir,” replied the old man.  “Mr. Noel came yesterday.”

“Take that card to Mr. Vanstone, if you please,” said the captain, “and say I am waiting here to see him.”

In a few minutes Noel Vanstone made his appearance, breathless and eager—­absorbed in anxiety for news from Aldborough.  Captain Wragge opened the carriage door, seized his outstretched hand, and pulled him in without ceremony.

“Your housekeeper has gone,” whispered the captain, “and you are to be married on Monday.  Don’t agitate yourself, and don’t express your feelings—­there isn’t time for it.  Get the first active servant you can find in the house to pack your bag in ten minutes, take leave of the admiral, and come back at once with me to the London train.”