“There may have been since we left home this morning.”

Just at this moment they come within full view of the old tower, and its strange rounded ivy-grown walls, and the little narrow holes in the sides they show at its highest point that indicate the position of the haunted chamber.

What is there at this moment in a mere glimpse of this old tower to make Arthur Dynecourt grow pale and to start so strangely?  His eyes grow brighter, his lips tighten and grow hard.

“Do you remember,” he says, turning to his cousin with all the air of one to whom a sudden inspiration has come, “that day on which we visited the haunted chamber?  Miss Delmaine accompanied us, did she not?”

“Yes”—­looking at him expectantly.

“Could she have dropped it there?” asks Arthur lightly.  “By Jove, it would be odd if she had—­eh?  Uncanny sort of place to drop one’s trinkets.”

“It is strange I didn’t think of it before,” responds Adrian, evidently struck by the suggestion.  “Why, it must have been just about that time when she lost it.  The more I think of it the more convinced I feel that it must be there.”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow; don’t jump at conclusions so hastily!  It is highly improbable.  I should say that she dropped it anywhere else in the world.”

“Well, I’ll go and see, at all events,” declares Adrian, unconvinced.

Is it some lingering remnant of grace, some vague human shrinking from the crime that has begun to form itself within his busy brain, that now induces Dynecourt to try to dissuade Sir Adrian from his declared intention to search the haunted chamber for the lost bangle?  With all his eloquence he seeks to convince him that there the bangle could not have been left, but to no effect.  His suggestion has taken firm root in Sir Adrian’s mind, and at least, as he frankly says, though it may be useless to hunt for it in that uncanny chamber, it is worth a try.  It may be there.  This dim possibility drives him on to his fate.

“Well, if you go alone and unprotected, your blood be on your own head,” says Dynecourt lightly, at last surrendering his position.  “Remember, whatever happens, I advised you not to go!”

As Arthur finishes his speech a sinister smile overspreads his pale features, and a quick light, as evil as it is piercing, comes into his eyes.  But Sir Adrian sees nothing of this.  He is looking at his home, as it stands grand and majestic in the red light of the dying sun.  He is looking, too, at the old tower, and at the upper portion of it, where the haunted chamber stands, and where he can see the long narrow holes that serve for windows.  How little could a man imprisoned there see of the great busy world without!

“Yes, I’ll remember,” he says jestingly.  “When the ghosts of my ancestors claim me as their victim, and incarcerate me in some fiendish dungeon, I shall remember your words and your advice.”