“He rose, and, fortifying himself once more with the strong stimulant of wine and spirits, he left his home, and was absent for about two months.

“What occurred to him during that time we none of us ever knew, but late one night he came home, apparently much flurried in manner, and seeming as if something had happened to drive him half mad.

“He would not speak to any one, but he shut himself up the whole of the night in the chamber where hangs the portrait that bears so strong a resemblance to Sir Francis Varney, and there he remained till the morning, when he emerged, and said briefly that he intended to leave the country.

“He was in a most fearful state of nervousness, and my mother tells me that he shook like one in an ague, and started at every little sound that occurred in the house, and glared about him so wildly that it was horrible to see him, or to sit in the same apartment with him.

“She says that the whole morning passed on in this way till a letter came to him, the contents of which appeared to throw him into a perfect convulsion of terror, and he retired again to the room with the portrait, where he remained some hours, and then he emerged, looking like a ghost, so dreadfully pale and haggard was he.

“He walked into the garden here, and was seen to sit down in this summer-house, and fix his eyes upon the window of that apartment.”

Henry paused for a few moments, and then he added,—­

“You will excuse me from entering upon any details of what next ensued in the melancholy history.  My father here committed suicide.  He was found dying, and all I he words he spoke were, ‘The money is hidden!’ Death claimed his victim, and, with a convulsive spasm, he resigned his spirit, leaving what he had intended to say hidden in the oblivion of the grave.”

“That was an odd affair,” said the admiral.

“It was, indeed.  We have all pondered deeply, and the result was, that, upon the whole, we were inclined to come to an opinion that the words he so uttered were but the result of the mental disturbance that at such a moment might well be supposed to be ensuing in the mind, and that they related really to no foregone fact any more than some incoherent words uttered by a man in a dream might be supposed to do.”

“It may be so.”

“I do not mean,” remarked Mr. Chillingworth, “for one moment to attempt to dispute, Henry, the rationality of such an opinion as you have just given utterance to; but you forget that another circumstance occurred, which gave a colour to the words used by your father.”

“Yes; I know to what you allude.”

“Be so good as to state it to the admiral.”

“I will.  On the evening of that same day there came a man here, who, in seeming ignorance of what had occurred, although by that time it was well known to all the neighbourhood, asked to see my father.

“Upon being told that he was dead, he started back, either with well acted or with real surprise, and seemed to be immensely chagrined.  He then demanded to know if he had left any disposition of his property; but he got no information, and departed muttering the most diabolical oaths and curses that can be imagined.  He mounted his horse, for he had ridden to the Hall and his last words were, as I am told—­