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We had returned from a ride. Romayne had gone into the library to

read; and I was just leaving the stables, after a look at some



recent improvements, when a pony-chaise with a gentleman in it

drove up to the door. He asked politely if he might be allowed to



see the house. There were some fine pictures at Vange, as well as

many interesting relics of antiquity; and the rooms were shown,



in Romayne's absence, to the very few travelers who were

adventurous enough to cross the heathy desert that surrounded the



Abbey. On this occasion, the stranger was informed that Mr.

Romayne was at home. He at once apologized--with an appearance of



disappointment, however, which induced me to step forward and

speak to him.



"Mr. Romayne is not very well," I said; "and I cannot venture to

ask you into the house. But you will be welcome, I am sure, to



walk round the grounds, and to look at the ruins of the Abbey."

He thanked me, and accepted the invitation. I find no great



difficulty in describing him, generally. He was elderly, fat. and

cheerful; buttoned up in a long black frockcoat, and presenting



that closely shaven face and that inveterate expression of

watchful humility about the eyes, which we all associate with the



reverend personality of a priest.

To my surprise, he seemed, in some degree at least, to know his



way about the place. He made straight for the dreary little lake

which I have already mentioned, and stood looking at it with an



interest which was so incomprehensible to me, that I own I

watched him.



He ascended the slope of the moorland, and entered the gate which

led to the grounds. All that the gardeners had done to make the



place attractive failed to claim his attention. He walked past

lawns, shrubs, and flower-beds, and only stopped at an old stone



fountain, which tradition declared to have been one of the

ornaments of the garden in the time of the monks. Having



carefully examined this relic of antiquity, he took a sheet of

paper from his pocket, and consulted it attentively. It might



have been a plan of the house and grounds, or it might not--I can

only report that he took the path which led him, by the shortest



way, to the ruined Abbey church.

As he entered the roofless inclosure, he reverently removed his



hat. It was impossible for me to follow him any further, without

exposing myself to the risk of discovery. I sat down on one of



the fallen stones, waiting to see him again. It must have been at

least half an hour before he appeared. He thanked me for my



kindness, as composedly as if he had quite expected to find me in

the place that I occupied.



"I have been deeply interested in all that I have seen," he said.

"May I venture to ask, what is perhaps an indiscreet question on



the part of a stranger?"

I ventured, on my side, to inquire what the question might be.



"Mr. Romayne is indeed fortunate," he resumed, "in the possession

of this beautiful place. He is a young man, I think?"



"Yes."

"Is he married?"



"No."

"Excuse my curiosity. The owner of Vange Abbey is an interesting



person to all good antiquaries like myself. Many thanks again.

Good-day."



His pony-chaise took him away. His last look rested--not on

me--but on the old Abbey.



IX.

MY record of events approaches its conclusion.



On the next day we returned to the hotel in London. At Romayne's

suggestion, I sent the same evening to my own house for any



letters which might be waiting for me. His mind still dwelt on

the duel; he was morbidly eager to know if any communication had



been received from the French surgeon.

When the messenger returned with my letters, the Boulogne



postmark was on one of the envelopes. At Romayne's entreaty, this

was the letter that I opened first. The surgeon's signature was



at the end.

One motive for anxiety--on my part--was set at rest in the first



lines. After an official inquiry into the circumstances, the

French authorities had decided that it was not expedient to put






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