“Yes.”

“The chamber on the north-west corner, which, as far as we know, has been shut up ever since?”

“Yes, I remember your suspicion as to foul play on the part of Mrs. Alien, who, it is believed, has never visited the apartment since the Captain’s death.”

“Well, you will be surprised to hear that the shutters are unclosed, and lights burning in that chamber.”

“Now!”

“Yes—­or at least half an hour ago.”

“That is remarkable.”

My wife looked puzzled.

“And more remarkable still—­I saw shadows moving on the walls, as of two or three persons in the room.”

“Something unusual has happened,” said my wife.

“Perhaps Mrs. Allen is dead.”

This thought had not occurred to me.  I turned it over for a few moments, and then remarked,

“Hardly probable—­for, in that case, I would have been summoned.  No; it strikes me that some strangers are in the house; for I am certain that I saw a young girl come to the window and press her face close up to one of the panes, as if trying to penetrate the darkness.

“Singular!” said my wife, as if speaking to herself.  “Now, that explains, in part, something that I couldn’t just make out yesterday.  I was late in getting home from Aunt Elder’s you know.  Well, as I came in view of that old house, I thought I saw a girl standing by the gate.  An appearance so unusual, caused me to strain my eyes to make out the figure, but the twilight had fallen too deeply.  While I still looked, the form disappeared; but, through an opening in the shrubbery, I caught another glimpse of it, as it vanished in the portico.  I was going to speak of the incident, but other matters pushed it, till now, from my thoughts when you were at home.”

“Then my eyes did not deceive me,” said I; “your story corroborates mine.  There is a young lady in the Allen House.  But who is she?  That is the question.”

As we could not get beyond this question, we left the riddle for time to solve, and turned next to the singular state of mind into which young Henry Wallingford had fallen.

“Well,” said my wife, speaking with some emphasis, after I had told her of the case, “I never imagined that he cared so much for the girl!”

“What girl?” I inquired.

“Why, Delia Floyd—­the silly fool! if I must speak so strongly.”

“Then he is really in love with Squire Floyd’s daughter?”

“It looks like it, if he’s taking on as his mother says,” answered my wife, with considerable feeling.  “And Delia will rue the day she turned from as true a man as Henry Wallingford.”

“Bless me, Constance! you’ve got deeper into this matter, than either his mother or me.  Who has been initiating you into the love secrets of S——?”