* * * * *

In what was called the moat garden of Wyndfell Hall, twilight was
deepening into night. But Lionel Varick, who was now pacing up and down
the broad path which followed the course of the moat, could still see,
sharply outlined against the pale winter sky, the vision of tranquil
beauty and the storehouse of archaeological and antiquarian interest
which was now his home.

By his special orders the windows had been left uncurtained. There were
lights in a great number of the rooms--indeed, the lower part of the
house was brilliantly illuminated. But as the windows in the beautiful
linen-panelled hall were diamond-paned, the brilliance was softened, and
there was something deliriously welcoming, almost fairy-like, in the
picture the old house presented to its new owner's eager gaze.

After a while he stayed his steps near the narrow brick bridge which
spanned the moat where a carriage road connected the domain of Wyndfell
Hall with the outside world, and, as he stood there in the gathering
twilight, he looked a romantic figure. Tall and well-built, he took,
perhaps, an almost excessive care over his dress. Yet there was nothing
effeminate or foppish about his appearance.

A follower of that now forgotten science, phrenology, would have been
impressed by Lionel Varick's head. It was large and well-shaped, with a
great deal of almost golden hair, now showing a white thread or two,
which did not, however, detract from his look of youth. He had a fine
broad forehead; deep, well-set grey eyes; and a beautiful, sensitive
mouth, which he took care not to conceal with a moustache. Thus in
almost any company he would have looked striking and distinguished--the