“I beg you not to suppose such a dreadful thing!” exclaimed Margie, shuddering; “he will come in the morning, and—­”

“But Hays was positive that he saw him leave the six o’clock train.  He described him accurately, even to the saying that he had a bouquet of white camelias in his hand.  Margie, what flowers was he to bring?”

She shook her head.

“Mrs. Weldon knows.  I do not.”

Alexandrine spoke.

“White camelias.  I heard Mrs. Weldon ask him to fetch them.”

Mr. Trevlyn started up.

“I will have out the whole household, at once, and search, the whole estate!  For I feel as if some terrible crime may have been done upon our very threshold.  Margie, dear, take heart, he may be alive and well!”

He went out to alarm the already excited guests, and in half an hour the place was alive with lanterns, carried by those who sought for the missing bridegroom.

Pale and silent, the women gathered themselves together in the chamber of the bride, and waited.  Margie sat among them in her white robes, mute and motionless as a statue.

“It must be terrible to fall by the hand of an assassin!” said Mrs. Weldon, with a shudder.  “Good heavens! what a dreadful thing it would be if Mr. Linmere has been murdered!”

“An assassin!  My God!” cried Margie, a terrible thought stealing across her mind.  Who had touched her in the cypress grove?  What hand had woke in her a thrill that changed her from ice to fire!  What if it were the hand of her betrothed husband’s murderer?

Alexandrine started forward at Margie’s exclamation.  Her cheek was white as marble, her breath came quick and struggling.

“Margie!  Margie Harrison!” she cried, “what do you mean?”

“Nothing,” answered Margie, recovering herself, and relapsing into her usual self-composure.

They searched all that night, and found nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  With the early train, both Mr. Trevlyn and Mr. Weldon went to the city.  They hurried to Mr. Linmere’s room, only to have their worst fears confirmed.  Pietro informed them that his master had left there on the six o’clock train; he had seen him to the depot, and into the car, receiving some orders from him relative to his rooms, after he had taken his seat.

There could be no longer any doubt but that there had been foul play somewhere.  The proper authorities were notified, and the search began afresh.  Harrison Park and its environs were thoroughly ransacked; the river was searched, the pond at the foot of the garden drained, but nothing was discovered.  There was no clue by which the fate of the missing man could be guessed at, ever so vaguely.

Every person about the place was examined and cross-examined, but no one knew anything, and the night shut down, and left the matter in mystery.  Pietro, at length, suggested Leo, Mr. Linmere’s gray-hound.

“Him no love his master,” said the Italian, “but him scent keen.  It will do no hurt to try him.”