I detected the footsteps of two persons—­large footsteps like a man’s, and small footsteps, which, by putting my own feet into them and testing their size in that manner, I felt certain were Laura’s.  The ground was confusedly marked in this way just before the boat-house.  Close against one side of it, under shelter of the projecting roof, I discovered a little hole in the sand—­a hole artificially made, beyond a doubt.  I just noticed it, and then turned away immediately to trace the footsteps as far as I could, and to follow the direction in which they might lead me.

They led me, starting from the left-hand side of the boat-house, along the edge of the trees, a distance, I should think, of between two and three hundred yards, and then the sandy ground showed no further trace of them.  Feeling that the persons whose course I was tracking must necessarily have entered the plantation at this point, I entered it too.  At first I could find no path, but I discovered one afterwards, just faintly traced among the trees, and followed it.  It took me, for some distance, in the direction of the village, until I stopped at a point where another foot-track crossed it.  The brambles grew thickly on either side of this second path.  I stood looking down it, uncertain which way to take next, and while I looked I saw on one thorny branch some fragments of fringe from a woman’s shawl.  A closer examination of the fringe satisfied me that it had been torn from a shawl of Laura’s, and I instantly followed the second path.  It brought me out at last, to my great relief, at the back of the house.  I say to my great relief, because I inferred that Laura must, for some unknown reason, have returned before me by this roundabout way.  I went in by the court-yard and the offices.  The first person whom I met in crossing the servants’ hall was Mrs. Michelson, the housekeeper.

“Do you know,” I asked, “whether Lady Glyde has come in from her walk or not?”

“My lady came in a little while ago with Sir Percival,” answered the housekeeper.  “I am afraid, Miss Halcombe, something very distressing has happened.”

My heart sank within me.  “You don’t mean an accident?” I said faintly.

“No, no—­thank God, no accident.  But my lady ran up-stairs to her own room in tears, and Sir Percival has ordered me to give Fanny warning to leave in an hour’s time.”

Fanny was Laura’s maid—­a good affectionate girl who had been with her for years—­the only person in the house whose fidelity and devotion we could both depend upon.

“Where is Fanny?” I inquired.

“In my room, Miss Halcombe.  The young woman is quite overcome, and I told her to sit down and try to recover herself.”

I went to Mrs. Michelson’s room, and found Fanny in a corner, with her box by her side, crying bitterly.

She could give me no explanation whatever of her sudden dismissal.  Sir Percival had ordered that she should have a month’s wages, in place of a month’s warning, and go.  No reason had been assigned—­ no objection had been made to her conduct.  She had been forbidden to appeal to her mistress, forbidden even to see her for a moment to say good-bye.  She was to go without explanations or farewells, and to go at once.