the quiet stretches of meadowland, shining white in the showered splendour of the moon—­the tall trees—­the infinite and harmonious peace of the whole scene,—­ then, shutting the lattice, she pulled the curtains across it, and taking her lit candle, went to her secluded inner sleeping-chamber, where, in the small, quaintly carved four-poster bed, furnished with ancient tapestry and lavendered linen, and covered up under a quilt embroidered three centuries back by the useful fingers of the wife of Sieur Amadis de Jocelin, she soon fell into a sound and dreamless slumber.

The hours moved on, bearing with them different destinies to millions of different human lives, and the tall old clock in the great hall of Briar Farm told them off with a sonorous chime and clangour worthy of Westminster itself.  It was a quiet night; there was not a breath of wind to whistle through crack or key-hole, or swing open an unbolted door,—­and Hero, the huge mastiff that always slept “on guard” just within the hall entrance, had surely no cause to sit up suddenly on his great haunches and listen with uplifted ears to sounds which were to any other creature inaudible.  Yet listen he did—­sharply and intently.  Raising his massive head he snuffed the air—­then suddenly began to tremble as with cold, and gave vent to a long, low, dismal moan.  It was a weird noise—­worse than positive howling, and the dog himself seemed distressfully conscious that he was expressing something strange and unnatural.  Two or three times he repeated this eerie muffled cry—­then, lying down again, he put his nose between his great paws, and, with a deep shivering sigh, appeared to resign himself to the inevitable.  There followed several moments of tense silence.  Then came a sudden dull thud overhead, as of a heavy load falling or being thrown down, and a curious inexplicable murmur like smothered choking or groaning.  Instantly the great dog sprang erect and raced up the staircase like a mad creature, barking furiously.  The house was aroused—­doors were flung open—­Priscilla rushed from her room half dressed—­and Innocent ran along the corridor in her little white nightgown, her feet bare, and her hair falling dishevelled over her shoulders.

“What is it?” she cried piteously—­“Oh, do tell me!  What is it?”

Robin Clifford, hearing the dog’s persistent barking, had hastily donned coat and trousers and now appeared on the scene.

“Hero, Hero!” he called—­“Quiet, Hero!”

But Hero had bounded to his master Jocelyn’s door and was pounding against it with all the force of his big muscular body, apparently seeking to push or break it open.  Robin laid one hand on the animal’s collar and pulled him back—­then tried the door himself—­ it was locked.

“Uncle Hugo!”

There was no answer.

He turned to one of the frightened servants who were standing near.  His face was very pale.

“Fetch me a hammer,” he said—­“Something—­anything that will force the lock.  Innocent!”—­and with deep tenderness he took her little cold hands in his own—­“I wish you would go away!”