“Most unequivocally.”

“I assert it,” said the doctor, “and now, I will tell you all, for I perceive you hesitate about searching, Sir Francis Varney, I tell you all why it is that he has such an affection for Bannerworth Hall.”

“Before you do,” said Varney, “there is a pill for you, which you may find more nauseous and harder of digestion, than any your shop can furnish.”

As Varney uttered these words, he suddenly drew from his pocket a pistol, and, levelling it at the unfortunate doctor, he fired it full at him.

The act was so sudden, so utterly unexpected, and so stunning, that it was done before any one could move hand or foot to prevent it.  Henry Bannerworth and his brother were the furthest off from the vampyre; and, unhappily, in the rush which they, as soon us possible, made towards him, they knocked down the admiral, who impeded them much; and, before they could spring over, or past him, Sir Francis Varney was gone.

So sudden, too, had been his departure, that they had not the least idea in which direction he had gone; so that to follow him would have been a work of the greatest possible difficulty.

Notwithstanding, however, both the difficulty and the danger, for no doubt the vampyre was well enough armed, Henry and his brother both rushed after the murderer, as they now believed him to be, in the route which they thought it was most probable he would take, namely, that which led towards the garden gate.

They reached that spot in a few moments, but all was profoundly still.  Not the least trace of any one could be seen, high or low, and they were compelled, after a cursory examination, to admit that Sir Francis Varney had again made his escape, despite the great odds that were against him in point of numbers.

“He has gone,” said Henry.  “Let us go back, and see into the state of poor Dr. Chillingworth, who, I fear, is a dead man.”

They hurried back to the spot, and there they found the admiral looking as composed as possible, and solacing himself with a pinch of snuff, as he gazed upon the apparently lifeless form at his feet.

“Is he dead?” said Henry.

“I should say he was,” replied the admiral; “such a shot as that was don’t want to be repeated.  Well, I liked the doctor with all his faults.  He only had one foolish way with him, and that was, that he shirked his grog.”

“This is an awful catastrophe,” said Henry, as he knelt down by the side of the body.  “Assist me, some of you.  Where is Charles?”

“I’ll be hanged,” said the admiral, “if I know.  He disappeared somewhere.”

“This is a night of mystery as well as terror.  Alas! poor Dr. Chillingworth!  I little thought that you would have fallen a victim to the man whom you preserved from death.  How strange it is that you should have snatched from the tomb the very individual who was, eventually, to take your own life.”