“Yes, that is true enough.  And when the unfortunate men get back into everyday life from the hospitals, or endeavor to resume their old work, the weakness appears.  I have seen cases.  But of all the men in Chadlands there are only three examples of any such catastrophe.  I know a few in the village—­none where one can speak of actual insanity, however.  Here there is only Fred Caunter, who was hurt about the head on board ship, but the injury left no defect.”

“Fred is certainly as sane as I am—­perhaps saner,” admitted Sir Walter.

“Don’t think I really imagine there is anything of the kind here,” added Mannering.  “But if these four men are in a condition to proceed with their work to-morrow, you must expect them to make a searching examination of everybody in the house.  And they may find a good number of nervous and hysterical women, if not men.  It is not their province, however, to determine whether people are weak in the head, and I know, as well as you do, that none in this house had any hand in these disasters.”

“Never was a family with fewer secrets than mine,” declared Sir Walter.

“The morning may bring light,” said Mary.

“I feel very little hope that it will,” answered Mannering.  “The inquiry will proceed, whatever happens to-night, and we may all have to go to London to attend it.  After they have turned Chadlands and everybody in it upside down, as they surely will, then we may be called, if they arrive at no conclusion.”

“I am prepared to be.  I shall not leave the country, of course, until I receive permission to do so.  It must be apparent to everybody that I am, of all men, if not the most involved, at least the most anxious to clear this mystery—­that nobody can doubt.”

“Then you must conserve your strength and be guided,” said Mannering.  “I do beg of you to retire now, and insist upon Mary doing the same.  Nothing can be gained by the dead, and necessary energy is lost to the living by this irrational vigil.  It is far past midnight; I beg you to retire, Sir Walter, and Mary, too.  There is nothing that should keep you out of bed, and I urge you to go to it.”

But the elder refused.

“Few will sleep under this roof to-night,” he said.  “There is a spirit of human anxiety and distress apparent, and naturally so.  I will stay here with this good man.  He is better company than many of the living.  I feel a great peace here.  The dead sustains me.”

He joined Mannering, however, in an appeal to his daughter, and, satisfied that their friend would not be far off at any time, Mary presently left them.  She declared herself as not anxious or nervous.  She had never believed that anything but natural causes were responsible for her husband’s death, and felt an assurance that morning would bring some measure, at least, of explanation.  She went out of the room with Mannering, and, promising her to keep a