"Not that I am aware of, madam."
Lydia dipped her pen in the ink and thought no more of the subject.
Bashville returned to the castle, attired himself like a country
gentleman of sporting tastes, and went out to enjoy his holiday.
The forenoon passed away peacefully. There was no sound in the
Warren Lodge except the scratching of Lydia's pen, the ticking of
her favorite skeleton clock, an occasional clatter of crockery from
the kitchen, and the voices of the birds and maids without. The hour
for lunch approached, and Lydia became a little restless. She
interrupted her work to look at the clock, and brushed a speck of
dust from its dial with the feather of her quill. Then she looked
absently through the window along the elm vista, where she had once
seen, as she had thought, a sylvan god. This time she saw a less
romantic object--a policeman. She looked again, incredulously, there
he was still, a black-bearded, helmeted man, making a dark blot in
the green perspective, and surveying the landscape cautiously. Lydia
rang the bell, and bade Phoebe ask the man what he wanted.
The girl soon returned out of breath, with the news that there were
a dozen more constables hiding in the road, and that the one she had
spoken to had given no account of himself, but had asked her how
many gates there were to the park; whether they were always locked,
and whether she had seen many people about. She felt sure that a
murder had been committed somewhere. Lydia shrugged her shoulders,
and ordered luncheon, during which Phoebe gazed eagerly through the
window, and left her mistress to wait on herself.
"Phoebe," said Lydia, when the dishes were removed; "you may go to
the gate lodge, and ask them there what the policemen want. But do
not go any further. Stay. Has Ellen gone to the castle with the
things?"
Phoebe reluctantly admitted that Ellen had.
"Well, you need not wait for her to return; but come back as quickly
as you can, in case I should want anybody."
"Directly, miss," said Phoebe, vanishing.
Lydia, left alone, resumed her work leisurely, occasionally pausing
to gaze at the distant woodland, and note with transient curiosity a
flock of sheep on the slope, or a flight of birds above the
tree-tops. Something more startling occurred presently. A man,
apparently half-naked, and carrying a black object under his arm,
darted through a remote glade with the swiftness of a stag, and
disappeared. Lydia concluded that he had been disturbed while
bathing in the canal, and had taken flight with his wardrobe under
his arm. She laughed at the idea, turned to her manuscript again,
and wrote on. Suddenly there was a rustle and a swift footstep
without. Then the latch was violently jerked up, and Cashel Byron
rushed in as far as the threshold, where he stood, stupefied at the
presence of Lydia, and the change in the appearance of the room.