Not the ghost of a one, sir,' was the prompt reply.

Not the ghost of a one! Was it possible that all I had seen and heard-the bay window, the matchless face, the gloomy hall, the fearful cries, the secret panel-was only the creation of an accident to my head? No; I remembered it all too clearly. It was impossible!

But further conversation with the keeper half-convinced me that it was possible. He had lived in these parts all his life, and he denied all knowledge of the house, which I minutely described to him.

'You must have been a-dreaming, sir.'

'Well, perhaps I was, Giles.'

However that might be I determined that, on the first opportunity, I would find my way back to the spot, and satisfy myself whether or not I had been the victim of an illusion.

The opportunity never came. I found my aunt speechless, and at daybreak she died. I found that there was much for me to do as sole executor, and immediately after the funeral I had to leave for London. So I left-shire without attempting to solve the mystery of the strange old house beside the river.

CHAPTER III.

I had a good deal to do, as I have said, in settling all my deceased aunt's affairs, but when I had cleared off all these I felt more inclined than ever for my long-meditated continental trip. I should say that my aunt had by no means forgotten me in her will, and I consequently found myself in a far better position, pecuniarily speaking, than before, and I determined to enlarge considerably the small circumference of travel I had originally sketched. Indeed I think I obliterated it altogether; there was no need for me now to limit myself to the expenditure of fifty pounds, so I provided myself liberally with circular notes, and arrived at London Bridge station one fine morning in August, ready to go wherever my way ward fancy might take me,

I hate making plans. To be the victim of a fixed idea at any time is bad enough, but for a tourist to map out a certain route and never deviate from it by a mile is indeed a miserable fate.

I intended to spend some days in Paris, but it was much too hot. Which way next? Why not to Cologne and up the Rhine? That would do as well as anything else, so I went by the night express to Cologne. Of course I went up the Drachenfels. When I was at the top I thought how much better the view was from the bottom. Then I went on board the steamboat, and whom should I fall in with but Everard.

'Well, old man,' he exclaimed, 'this is a find. So far I have been bored out of my life. You wouldn't believe it, but I have been doing churches in Belgium - read up somebody on architecture on purpose-to say nothing of somebody else's notes on the Middle Ages. Where are you going?'

'I really hardly know,' I replied, 'Switzerland or the Tyrol, I think.'

'You must come along with me first. I am going to do the dutiful at Wiesbaden. My people are there: the mother is drinking hot water, I believe. She doesn't exactly know why, but she thinks she likes it. The governor is taking baths for what he calls rheumatism, and other people call the gout. Come to Wiesbaden, there's a good soul, and have a look at the tables.'

I at once consented, and soon found myself comfortably lodged in that extremely uninteresting place, for there certainly appeared to me to be nothing to do there but to look at a Greek church with a shining dome, walk up to the top of a hill where it was the custom to drink beer, and, when not peripatetically inclined, watch the unhappy victims of the gambling-tables. I was not, I should say, in the same hotel as Everard, as I could not, on first arriving, get a room there.

I had been at Wiesbaden for nearly a week, when I began to think it was time to move on; but it occurred to me, as I was sitting alone at breakfast, that I had gained

no practical experience in the mysteries of rouge-et-noir. I had looked on often enough, but I had never felt tempted to stake a kreutzer on the chances, and I thought I ought really to do something in that way, if only for the benefit of the bank which provided me with the kursaal and the pleasant gardens. I am bound to say I had not the least expectation of winning a farthing. I knew my luck too well. Still, I walked to the tables with the fixed and deliberate intention of playing.

'I suppose I am a fool,' I observed to myself, as I walked leisurely along. It isn't in my nature to win. I know how unlucky I am at cards,' there I paused; for Everard's saying instantly recurred to me: Unlucky at cards-lucky in a wife.'

Perhaps, now that I was considerably more independent than when I was at Oxford, my luck might have changed. Perhaps, after all, I might turn out to be lucky at cards, and unlucky-well, as far as the cards were concerned, I should soon

see.

It was very absurd of me, but I really felt quite anxious to know whether my luck had changed. I entered the largest salon de jeu, and found that there were already very many persons gathered round the table, and play was in full swing. I waited patiently for some time, watching the persistency with which some of the players adhered to a system and lost, and how others apparently staked at haphazard and won. At last, a withered old woman with a repulsive wig and well-rouged cheeks, having lost her last florin, got up and left the table, and I took her place. I had just ten napoleons in my pocket: if I doubled them, I determined to be content; if I lost them, to be-if possible-equally content.

Rouge had gained five times consecutively when I took my seat, therefore I backed Noir. I lost. Backed Noir again: lost again. Again, won. Again, the irrevocable Rouge triumphed four times running, but I had faithfully stuck to Noir, and I continued to stick to it. Rouge persistently won the day, and

in a manner that ought to have astonished the croupier, if that stolid functionary had it in him to be astonished at anything. However, I was backing Noir, so it was but natural that Rouge should be the winning colour. In twenty minutes, my ten napoleons had passed from my possession, and I rose from my chair, much to the surprise of a Russian gentleman next me, who evidently thought me very pusillanimous.

I felt a hand upon my shoulder.

'My dear George, how can you be such an ass! You, of all men, to try your wretched luck!'

It was Everard who spoke; he had been standing behind me all the time.

'Simply an experiment, my dear fellow. You know me too well to think there is anything of the gambler about me. Good heavens!'

Everard started at my sudden exclamation.

'What is the matter, George?' I could not answer; I stood spellbound. For there at the door which led out upon the gardens stood one whom I recognised in an instant. I recognised the majestic figure-the white morning dress-the dark hair bound with blue ribbons-the peerless loveliness-the same that I had seen on the lawn at Daylesford, and in the bay window of the old house beside the river!

Her eyes met mine. Was I deceived, or did she, too, really start? I fancied that she did.

I could not withdraw my eager gaze, and I saw she coloured slightly, as she moved slowly away into the kursaal grounds.

'Ah, I see what it is,' said Everard, laughing: 'you're struck too. That young lady who just went out literally walks upon the bodies of her victims.'

'For God's sake, tell me who she is!'

Is it possible you don't know?' returned Everard, amused at my vehemence: 'that is the beautiful Miss Irvine- Mabel Irvine — have you never heard of her?'

'Never,' I replied, mechanically, still gazing vacantly at the spot where she had stood.

'She was the belle of Rome last winter-as she is of every place she goes to. And though her face ought to be fortune enough, she has five thousand a year into the bargain!'

'An heiress,' I muttered, as we walked out of the salon.

'Rather-and no mistake about it, either. In fact, I believe I have put the figure rather too low.'

'You say she was in Rome last winter-do you happen to know if she has been in England this summer?'

'I happen to know that she has not; they are staying at our hotel, and have only recently come from Italy.'

They-who are they?'

'Herself and an elderly cousin with whom she is travelling-a Colonel Irvine; he is her guardian or something of that sort, I believe, for she is an orphan, and not quite of age.'

This is indeed most strange!' I muttered as we walked along arm in arm.

'What is strange?'

'You say that she has only just come from Italy-and yet I could swear that I saw her up in the north of England, not two months ago. And yet I must be mistaker.'

'Of course you are. Colonel Irvine himself has told me all about their voyagings. But I should hardly have thought you could have been so fortunate as to have seen any one so like her.'

I should hardly have thought so,' I echoed.

'Come and dine with me this evening at our table-d'hôte. They sit opposite to us, and after dinner I can introduce you.'

I suppose there must have been a very strange expression on my face as I stopped and looked up at my friend, for he exclaimed:

'Bless me, George! Why, what's the matter with the man? Are you frightened at the happiness that awaits you? You don't seem half to like the thoughts of coming.'

'Oh yes. I'll come with pleasure,' I answered, eagerly. But there's something rather odd about this meeting. I can't explain it to you

now, Everard. At what time is your table-d'hôte?'

'Five, sharp.'

'I'll be with you punctually. I must say good-bye for the present.'

Excusing myself as best I could for not continuing our walk, I turned hastily away, leaving my friend, as I felt sure, staring after me in the most unfeigned astonishment.

Arrived at my own apartments, I threw myself into an arm-chair and endeavoured to reflect calmly.

Will it seem strange if I say that in this morning I had almost forgotten that vision on the lawn-in the bay window-and those dreadful cries? Yet such indeed was the case. If they ever did cross my thoughts, it was more in the fashion of a half-forgotten dream; in fact, I think I had persuaded myself that the whole thing was an illusion of the brain, created, I know not how, by the accident I met with on the night before my aunt's death.

But now all the circumstances rushed back upon my memory with a marvellous vividness. I was again with my aunt gazing out into the twilight, and I saw again the beautiful white figure cross the lawn. Again, I was wandering along the stream, rod in hand; again, I was fighting my way through the thick wood; again, I was standing before the quaint old house beside the river; again, I saw the lovely face in the bay window: I heard the cries-I was in the house; I touched the spring-I remembered exactly whereabouts it was-I stood within the mysteriously empty chamber. No, it could have been no mere illusion. For here in the flesh was the woman I had seen, and I should soon be speaking with her. How could I explain it? And did she not too, on her part, seem to recognise me as she stood beside the door? The slight gesture she made, when her eyes met mine, certainly made me think so.

Suddenly those odd words of my aunt's recurred to me, as if she had only just spoken them:

There's somebody waiting for you, George; somebody keeps coming and going!'

For a long time I sat lost in

thought, but I could arrive at no satisfactory solution of the riddle that was puzzling me. By-and-by, looking at my watch, I found that it was time to prepare for dinner.

I could not help it, I own, I was excited; foolishly so, it may have been. I scarcely knew as I left my hotel which desire preponderated most, to penetrate a seeming mystery or to feast my eyes upon the radiant loveliness of Mabel Irvine.

At dinner I was indeed seated exactly opposite Miss Irvine, but unfortunately-or fortunately, I suppose I ought to say-I was placed between two of Everard's sisterspretty, charming, high-spirited, I admit-but on this occasion they were too much for me, and I felt painfully oppressed by their gaiety. I am certain that they confided to each other afterwards that I was either very stupid or very cross.

I scarcely dared to look directly at Miss Irvine; furtively I did so once or twice, and I could not resist the impression that she seemed nearly as embarrassed as I was. I turned my attention chiefly to her cousin, guardian, or whatever he was -Colonel Irvine-and I marked him well.

He was a man of, apparently, some eight and forty or fifty years of age, and must have been strikingly handsome in his youth and prime. His hair was already grey, but there were no signs of baldness, and he wore a long drooping moustache. The eyes were fiery and restless, but, handsome as he was, there was, at times, something of a sinister expression on his face which was calculated to make most persons think twice before they would knowingly make him an enemy. Altogether, I felt that I should not like him, and I endeavoured to get rid of the impression, for I had resolved to make myself as agreeable to him as possible.

Table-d'hôte over, we all strolled up to the kursaal for coffee, and at the first opportunity, Everard presented me to the Irvines. The colonel was studiously polite, unnecessarily so, it seemed to me; asked me what route I had been pursuing, and discoursed eloquently

upon Italy. It was not until some time had passed that I got a chance of speaking to Mabel. We had finished coffee and the ' petit verre,' and were sauntering through the gardens. Everard's father, I am happy to say, had fastened upon the colonel, the animated young ladies met some friends, and I found myself by Mabel's side.

'Do you like Wiesbaden, Miss Irvine?' was my first rather ordinary observation.

We only came yesterday,' she replied, in a sweet voice which thrilled through me, 'so I can hardly say. It seems very dull and commonplace after Italy.'

Could that be the voice I had heard in such other tones in the quaint old house beside the river? I shuddered as I asked myself the question.

'You have been spending the winter at Rome, Everard tells me. I suppose you have been coming northwards slowly.'

'Yes; we stayed some time at Florence and Venice, and now are only just come from the Italian lakes.'

I resolved to lose no more time, so I said, somewhat abruptly,

'Tell me, Miss Irvine, and excuse the question-but, have you a sister?'

She looked up at me in astonishment, and answered

No-what makes you ask that question?'

'Simply because your face is so strangely familiar to me. Indeed,' I continued, looking at her fixedly, 'when I caught a glimpse of you this morning in the salon, I could have sworn you were some one I had seen a short time since in the north of England.'

'The north of England! I have never been there in my life. And I have not been in England at all for eighteen months nearly.'

Mystery on mystery! The more I looked at her, the more I felt convinced of her identity.

'It is very odd,' I muttered.

'I daresay you saw somebody like me. Or,' she added, laughing lightly, 'perhaps you are only making conversation. I assure you

I have known gentlemen say all sorts of odd things on first introduction, in order to avoid appearing commonplace.'

'No-indeed,' I answered, eagerly. 'My question was bona fide. I cannot tell you, Miss Irvine, how sorely the resemblance puzzles me.'

Well, I acquit you of the charge,' she replied, gravely; the more so, as I can quite appreciate your position. Oddly enough, I thought I recognised you this morning. Candidly own, Mr. Seaforth, instead of the north of England were you not in Florence last June?'

Florence!' I exclaimed, in my turn. Till a fortnight ago I was never on the Continent.'

Then, as you say, it is rather odd,' she rejoined, in a musing tone. 'I certainly saw some one very like you there. The circumstance recurred to my mind this afternoon.'

I could not help noticing that she blushed slightly-she, too, had been puzzling over a face-as she continued:

It was one hot and sultry evening, I remember: I had been for a walk with my maid. As we returned home, I remembered that I wanted her to do some trifling shopping; so, as we were not far from the hotel, I sent her to execute my commissions, and I went on alone. I had to pass an Englishlooking house-which I had passed once or twice before-with a neat attempt at lawn and garden in front of it, and as it was so unlike most Italian villas, I could not help pausing to look at it. Suddenly, 1 became aware that some one, an Englishman apparently, was observing me from a window on the ground-floor. I saw his face distinctly, and I suppose you very much resemble him. I saw an old lady sitting by the window, too. I had seen her on previous occasions as I passed, not with a gentleman.'

The close summer evening-my aunt the dining-room windowthe lawn-the white figure turned towards us: the whole scene was before me.

'I don't know,' she went on, smiling, if this gentleman's appearance would have impressed

itself so strongly upon me, if I had not met him again.'

6

May I ask-when and where ?' I said, breathlessly.

'I will tell you. A few evenings afterwards, I was standing on the balcony of our salon in the hotel which overlooked the Arno. I saw this same Englishman-if Englishman he was-standing beside the parapet on the bank of the river, gazing steadily at me. I recognised him at once, and felt rather angry at thinking that he recognised me, and was just retreating into the room when suddenly I was seized with a horrible spasm in my throat,-just managed to stagger back into the salon, and fell fainting on the floor.' I hope you were not seriously

ill?'

No-it was some miasma from the river, the doctors said. Colonel Irvine summoned two or three Florentine physicians. I believe they would have killed me if they had had their way. They wanted to bleed me, but I resolutely declined.' I determined to keep my own counsel, and say nothing now of the when and the where I had seen her, or her image, before. Her story was perfectly plain and simple-not so, mine. So I merely said, with an effort at gaiety

'I believe I have got Scotch blood in my veins: henceforth I shall steadily believe in doubles.'

I contrived to change the conversation, and we walked on amid the deepening shades-and oh! what a happy time to me! I had read of love-latterly, I had dreamed of love-and now I knew the sweet reality.

After a while, I observed the colonel glance over his shoulder sharply towards us, and soon afterwards he turned back and joined us, and said, in a singularly soft and pleasing voice

'It is getting late, Mabel; and the evening damp in these gardens is not as wholesome as it might be -certainly not for you. I think you must ask Mr. Seaforth to turn round and take you home again.'

Ought I really to go in, Cousin James? It is so delicious out here.'