“But how can the estate go to her?”

“Simply because there is no other heir,” replied his mother; “they are the last of the family.  It is not entailed.”

“Thirty-four!” ruminated Woodward.  “Well, I have seen very fine girls at thirty-four; but in personal appearance and manner what is she like?”

“Why, perhaps a critical eye might not call her handsome; but the general opinion on that point is in her favor.  Her manners are agreeable, so are her features; but it is said that she is fastidious in her lovers, and has rejected many.  It is true most of them were fortune-hunters, and deserved no better success.”

“But what do you call me, mother?”

“Surely not a fortune-hunter, Harry.  Is not there your granduncle’s large property who is a bachelor, and you are his favorite.”

“But don’t you know, mother, that, as respects my granduncle, I have confided that secret to you already?”

“I know no such thing, you fool,” she replied, looking at him with an expression in her odious eyes which could not be described; “I am altogether ignorant of that fact; but is there not the twelve hundred per annum which reverts to you on the demise of that dying girl?”

“True, my dear mother, true; you are right, I am a fool.  Of course I never told you the secret of my disinheritance by the old scoundrel.”

“Ah, Harry, I fear you played your cards badly there.  You knew he was religious, and yet you should become a seducer; but why make free with his money?”

“Why?  Why, because he kept me upon the tight curb; but, as these matters are known only to ourselves, I see you are right.  I am still to be considered his favorite—­his heir—­and am here only on, a visit.”

“Well, but, Harry, he must have dealt liberally with you on your departure from him?”

“He!  Don’t you know I was obliged to fly?—­to take French leave, I assure you.  I reached Rathfillan House with not more than twenty pounds in my pocket.”

“But how does it happen that you always appear to have plenty of money?”

“My dear mother, there is a secret there; but it is one which even you shall not know,—­or come, you shall know it.  Did you ever hear of a certain supernatural being which follows your family, which supernatural being is known by the name of the Black Spectre, or some such denomination which I cannot remember?”

“I don’t wish to hear it named,” replied his mother, deeply agitated.  “It resembles the Banshee, and never appears to any one of our family except as a precursor of his death by violence.”

Woodward started for a moment, and could not avoid being struck at the coincidence of the same mission having been assigned to the two spirits, and he reflected, with an impression that was anything but agreeable, upon his damnable suggestion of having had recourse to the vile agency of Caterine Collins in enacting the said Banshee, for the purpose of giving the last fatal blow to the almost dying Alice Goodwin.  He felt, and he had reason to feel, that there was a mystery about the Black Spectre, which, for the life of him, he could not fathom.  He was, however, a firm and resolute man, and after a moment or two’s thought he declined to make any further disclosure on the subject, but reverted to the general topic of their conversation.