“Who is it you mean?  Who has been murdered?” gasped out the terrified girl.

“Why old Squire Hurdlestone.  He has been shot dead by his own son—­that young chap who has been staying here so long.  They have got him safe, though.  And by this time he must be in jail.  Oh, I hope they will hang ’un.  But hanging is too good.  He should be burnt alive.”

And here the old man hobbled on, eager to get a sight of the frightful spectacle, and to hear all the news from the fountain head.

The first blush of the red dawn was glowing in the east; but Clary still remained in the same attitude, with her hand resting upon the half-open gate, her eyes fixed on vacancy, her lips apart, a breathing image of despair.  The stage coach from ——­ drove briskly up.  A gentleman sprang from the top of the vehicle.  A portmanteau was flung down to him by the guard.—­“All right,” and the horses were again at full gallop.

“Clary, dear Clary, who would have thought of your being up so early to meet me?”

That voice seemed to recall the wandering spirit of the pale girl back to its earthly tabernacle.  With a long wild cry, she flung herself into her brother’s arms.  “Hide me in your heart, Frederic, hide me from myself.  I am sick and weary of the world!”

Unable to comprehend the cause of this violent agitation, Frederic Wildegrave carried his now insensible sister into the house, and calling Ruth, who was busy kindling the fires, he bade her awake Mr. Anthony.  The woman shook her head mysteriously.

“He’s gone, sir.  He left us suddenly last night, and Miss Clary has been up ever since.”

“I fear it is as I suspected.  He must have robbed me.  Yet, if he has deceived me, I never will trust to physiognomy again.”

He opened his desk, and found two hundred pounds in notes, and turning to the window to examine them, he recognised the letter addressed to him by Anthony that was lying on the table.

With feelings of compassion and astonishment, he hastily glanced over the affecting account it contained of the thrilling events of the past week.  Several times the tears sprang to his eyes, and he reproached himself for having suspected Anthony of having eloped with the money left in his charge.  He knew what agony of mind his cousin must have endured before he could prevail upon himself to petition his relentless father for the loan of the sum he had imprudently lent to Godfrey.  He only blamed him for the want of confidence which had hindered him from communicating his situation to his friend.  Fearing that he had been induced to commit some desperate act, he did not wait to change his dress, or partake of the breakfast old Ruth had provided, but mounting a horse, rode full speed to Ashton.

Long before he reached the village he learned the dreadful tale of the murder, and though he did not like to believe Anthony guilty, he knew not how to get satisfactorily over the great mass of circumstantial evidence, which even his own letter contained against him.  Every person with whom he talked upon the subject held the same opinion, and many who before had execrated the old man, and spoke with abhorrence of his conduct to his son, now mentioned him with pity and respect, and decried the young man as a monster, for whom hanging was too good, who deserved to die a thousand deaths.