“I expect he’ll know it well enough, but I’ll tell him everything there is to tell.  I remember long ago, after the wedding, that he was interested in haunted rooms, and said he believed in such things on Scriptural grounds.”

Sir Walter took pause at this statement.

“That is news to me.  Supposing he—­However, we need not trouble ourselves with him yet.  He will, of course, be as deeply concerned to get to the bottom of this as I am, though we must not interfere, or make the inquiry harder for Hardcastle than he is bound to find it.”

“Certainly nobody must interfere.  I only hope we can get Peter Hardcastle.”

“Tell them to call me when Mr. May arrives, and not sooner.  I’ll see Mary, then lie down for an hour or two.”

“You feel all right?  Should you care to see Mannering?”

“I am right enough.  Say ‘Good-bye’ to Vane and Miles Handford for me.  They may have to return here presently.  One can’t tell who may be wanted, and who may not be.  I don’t know—­these things are outside my experience; but they had better both leave you their directions.”

“I’ll ask them.”

Sir Walter visited his daughter, and changed his mind about sleeping.  She was passing through an hour of unspeakable horror.  The dark temple of realization had opened for her and she was treading its dreary aisles.  Henceforth for long days—­she told herself for ever—­sorrow and sense of unutterable loss must be her companions and share her waking hours.

They stopped together alone till the dusk came down and Mannering returned.  He stayed but a few minutes, and presently they heard his car start again, while that containing the departing guests and Henry Lennox immediately followed it.

In due course Septimus May returned to Chadlands with him.  The clergyman had heard of his son’s end, and went immediately to see the dead man.  There Mary joined him, and witnessed his self-control under very shattering grief.  He was thin, clean-shaven—­a grey man with smouldering eyes and an expression of endurance.  A fanatic in faith, by virtue of certain asperities of mind and a critical temperament, he had never made friends, won his parish into close ties, nor advanced the cause of his religion as he had yearned to do.  With the zeal of a reformer, he had entered the ministry in youth; but while commanding respect for his own rule of conduct and the example he set his little flock, their affection he never won.  The people feared him, and dreaded his stern criticism.  Once certain spirits, smarting under pulpit censure, had sought to be rid of him; but no grounds existed on which they could eject the reverend gentleman or challenge his status.  He remained, therefore, as many like him remain, embedded in his parish and unknown beyond it.  He was a poor student of human nature and life had dimmed his old ambitions, soured his hopes; but it had not clouded his faith.