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apologise to Jones at a fitting opportunity, for, albeit he declares to this day that it was Sylvester, I have persisted in repudiating the idea as being monstrous. And then the ghost—why, let me see—the ghost! Why the ghost never appears here when Sylvester is absent. He is the ghost: he must be the ghost. The thing is all explained. When he is in town no ghost appears: it is always seen when he is here! Nothing can be clearer. Bless my life and soul, now I wonder this never occurred to me before. He is the ghost. There cannot be a doubt about it. And this reminds me that I have been unwittingly guilty of an act of injustice. You remember that that man, Obadiah Drant, declared the other day that Sylvester was drinking one night at the Crumpet and Crown? Sylvester denied it positively—solemnly, and I, in consequence, told Drant plainly, and in no measured terms, that it was false. I now, however, firmly believe it to be true: I believe that Sylvester, while in a state of somnambulism, was there. I must apologise to that unhappy man: it is but just that I should do so. Why, my dear Eleanor, this is the key to all. This affords a ready and a rational explanation of everything that has occurred!"

"But is it not strange that we should never have discovered it?"

"It is—very strange. That, however, which strikes me as being most strange, is the fact of his having deceived me that night when he entered the parlour. I really believed him to be a spirit: I did indeed. That, my dear Eleanor, is the strangest thing of all. But we must see him: we must see him without delay. When shall we go, my dear—when shall we go? Shall we start off at once?"

"Why, I don't see how we can go to-day. I have nothing prepared!"

"There is a coach, my dear, at twelve. Can you not, by the exercise of your ingenuity, manage to get ready by that time? I would not press the point, but I really feel so anxious to see him."

"So do I! But—well, I will get ready: we will go to-day. The coach starts from the inn at twelve?"

"Yes, and if we start from here at the same time, we shall meet it."

"Then let it be so. You will have to go home: by the time you return, I'll be ready."

The reverend gentleman then left the cottage—prepared for the journey—returned at eleven—sat down to lunch—ate heartily—and at twelve o'clock they started.

As they left the village the carriages of Mr. Howard and the lady whose assumed name was Greville met at the door of the inn. It will doubtless be remembered that they, with Henriette, were introduced in the fifth chapter of this history. It will be also recollected that they had been in the habit of meeting at that place periodically; that Mr. Howard would never see Mrs. Greville; and that Henriette—who was allowed to remain in the room one hour—had been kept in perfect ignorance as to who she really was.

Henriette had a thousand times entreated her father to explain this mystery: a thousand times had she begged of him to tell her why they met there, and why Mrs. Greville—whom he felt she loved dearly—should be always so deeply affected when they met. His answer inva-