chance of his amending his company, Mr. Bangs was not the man to put stumbling blocks in his way.  But the demented constable, having recovered his baton, began searching.  He explored the stables, the lofts, the coach-house, the sheds, examined every manger, and thrust a pitchfork into every truss of hay and heap of straw.  He came outside and scrutinized the angle of every fence, poked every bush, peered under verandahs, and, according to the untruthful and unsympathetic Timotheus, rammed twigs down woodchucks’ holes for fear the jail breakers had taken refuge in the bowels of the earth.  Ben and Maguffin brought him in by force, lest in his despair he should do himself an injury, and sat him down in an easy chair with the wished-for cider mug before him.  He had sense enough left to attach himself to the mug, and draw comfort from its depths.  Then he murmured:  “Thomas Rigby, eighteen years in service, promoted corporal for valour before the enemy, Crimean and Indian medals and clasps, captured by a female young woman, bound and imprisoned by the same, Attention! no, as you were!” Addressing Mr. Terry he continued:  “Sergeant Major, that woman, unless I find her, will bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”

“Come, come, now, corporal dear! shure it isn’t the firsht toime a foine lukin’ owld sowljer has been captivated boy the ladies.  Honoria’s blissed mother, rist her sowl in heaven, tuk me prishner wid a luk av her broight black eyes, an’, iv she wor livin’, she cud do it agin.”

With the morning came a thunderstorm, altogether unexpected, for Monday’s north-western breeze had promised fine and cooler weather.  But the south wind had conquered for a time, and now the two blasts were contending in the clouds above and on the waters of the distant great lake below.  The rain fell in torrents, like hail upon the shingled roof; the blue-forked lightning flashed viciously, followed instantaneously by peals of thunder that rattled every casement, and made the dishes dance on the breakfast table.  The doctor had been with his patient; and as the clergymen were about to conduct family worship, he whispered to them that the soul might slip away during the terrors of the storm, as he had often seen before.  It was a very solemn and awful time.  In vain Mrs. Carmichael, aided by the other ladies, sought to make her daughter rest or even partake of food.  How could she?  The storm outside was nothing to that which raged in her own breast, calm as was her outward demeanour.  Marjorie crouched on the mat outside the bed-room door, and quietly sobbed herself to sleep amid the crash of the elements.  But, when another sad dinner was over, the colonel and Mr. Terry bethought them of asking the detective if he knew of the inner lake on the shore of which Tillycot stood.  He did not, but saw the importance of searching there.  As the last of the rain had ceased, he proposed to explore it, but told the Squire, with whom he communicated,