He paused.

Kate's work had dropped in her lap, with a faint cry of dismay.

"I had reached the lower end of the avenue," continued Reginald Stanford, "and was turning, when I saw two persons--a man and a woman--enter. 'Who can they be, and what can they be about here at this hour?' I thought, and I stood still to watch. They came nearer. I saw in the starlight her woman's face. I heard in the stillness her words. She was telling the man how much she loved him, how much she should always love him, and then they were out of sight and hearing. Kate, was that woman you?"

She sat looking at him, her blue eyes dilated, her lips apart, her hands clasped, in a sort of trance of terror.

"Was it you, Kate?" repeated her lover. "Am I to believe my eyes?"

She roused herself to speak by an effort.

"Oh, Reginald!" she cried, "what have you done! Why, why did you go there?"

There was dismay in her tone, consternation in her face, but nothing else. No shame, no guilt, no confusion--nothing but that look of grief and regret.

A conviction that had possessed him all along that it was all right, somehow or other, became stronger than ever now; but his face did not show it--perhaps, unconsciously, in his secret heart he was hoping it would not be all right.

"Perhaps I was unfortunate in going there," he said, coldly; "but I a.s.sure you I had very little idea of what I was to see and hear. Having heard, and having seen, I am afraid I must insist on an explanation."

"Which I cannot give you," said Kate, her colour rising, and looking steadfastly in his dark eyes.

"You cannot give me!" said Reginald, haughtily. "Do I understand you rightly, Kate?"

She laid her hand on his, with a gentle, caressing touch, and bent forward. She loved him too deeply and tenderly to bear that cold, proud tone.

"We have never quarrelled yet, Reginald," she said, sweetly. "Let us not quarrel now. I cannot give you the explanation you ask; but papa shall."

He lifted the beautiful hand to his lips, feeling somehow, that he was unworthy to touch the hem of her garment.

"You are an angel, Kate--incapable of doing wrong. I ought to be content without an explanation, knowing you as I do; but--"

"But you must have one, nevertheless. Reginald, I am sorry you saw me last night."

He looked at her, hardly knowing what to say. She was gazing sadly out at the sunny prospect.

"Poor fellow!" she said, half to herself, "poor fellow! Those midnight walks are almost all the comfort he has in this world, and now he will be afraid to venture out any more."

Still Stanford sat silent.

Kate smiled at him and put away her work.

"Wait for me here," she said, rising. "Papa is in his study. I will speak to him."

She left the room. Stanford sat and waited, and felt more uncomfortable than he had ever felt in his life. He was curious, too. What family mystery was about to be revealed to him? What secret was this hidden in Danton Hall?

"I have heard there is a skeleton in every house," he thought; "but I never dreamed there was one hidden away in this romantic old mansion.

Perhaps I have seen the ghost of Danton Hall, as well as the rest. How calmly Kate took it!--No sign of guilt or wrong-doing in her face. If I ever turn out a villain, there will be no excuse for my villainy on her part."

Kate was absent nearly half an hour, but it seemed a little century to the impatient waiter. When she entered, there were traces of tears on her face, but her manner was quite calm.

"Papa is waiting for you," she said, "in his study."

He rose up, walked to the door, and stood there, irresolute.

"Where shall I find you when I return?"

"Here."

She said it softly and a little sadly. Stanford crossed to where she stood, and took her in his arms--a very unusual proceeding for him--and kissed her.

"I have perfect confidence in your truth, my dearest," he said. "I am as sure of your goodness and innocence before your father's explanation as I can possibly be after it."

There was a witness to this loving declaration that neither of them bargained for. Rose, getting tired of her own company, had run down-stairs to entertain herself with her music. Stanford had left the door ajar when he returned; and Rose was just in time to see the embrace and hear the tender speech. Just in time, too, to fly before Reginald left the drawing-room and took his way to the study.

Rose played no piano that morning; but, locked in her own room, made the most of what she had heard and seen. Kate had the drawing-room to herself, and sat, with clasped hands, looking out at the bright March morning. The business of the day went on in the house, doors opened and shut, Grace and Eeny came in and went away again, Doctor Frank came up to see Agnes Darling, who was nearly well; and in the study, Reginald Stanford was hearing the story of Miss Danton's midnight stroll.

"You must have heard it sooner or later," Captain Danton said, "between this and next June. As well now as any other time."

Stanford bowed and waited.

"You have not resided in this house for so many weeks without hearing of the invalid upstairs, whom Ogden attends, who never appears in our midst, and about whom all in the house are more or less curious?"

"Mr. Richards?" said Stanford, surprised.

"Yes, Mr. Richards; you have heard of him. It was Mr. Richards whom you saw with Kate last night."

Reginald Stanford dropped the paper-knife he had been drumming with, and stared blankly at Captain Danton.

"Mr. Richards!" he echoed; "Mr. Richards, who is too ill to leave his room!"

"Not now," said Captain Danton, calmly; "he was when he first came here.

You know what ailed Macbeth--a sickness that physicians could not cure.

That is Mr. Richards' complaint--a mind diseased. Remorse and terror are that unhappy young man's ailments and jailers."

There was a dead pause. Reginald Stanford, still "far wide," gazed at his father-in-law-elect, and waited for something more satisfactory.

"It is not a pleasant story to tell," Captain Danton went on, in a subdued voice; "the story of a young man's folly, and madness, and guilt; but it must be told. The man you saw last night is barely twenty-three years of age, but all the promise of his life is gone; from henceforth he can be nothing more than a hunted outcast, with the stain of murder on his soul."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed his hearer; "and Kate walks with such a man, alone, and at midnight?"

"Yes," said Kate's father, proudly "and will again, please Heaven. Poor boy! poor, unfortunate boy! If Kate and I were to desert him, he would be lost indeed."

"This is all Greek to me," said Stanford, coldly. "If the man be what you say, a murderer, nothing can excuse Miss Danton's conduct."

"Listen, Reginald, my dear boy--almost my son; listen, and you will have nothing but pity for the poor man upstairs, and deeper love for my n.o.ble daughter. But, first, have I your word of honour that what I tell you shall remain a secret?"

Reginald bowed.