Suddenly, in the exceeding hush, there was a strange and ghastly sound,--
it was the howl of a dog! Helen started from her sleep. Percival's dog
had followed her into her room; it had coiled itself, grateful for the
kindness, at the foot of the bed. Now it was on the pillow, she felt its
heart beat against her hand,--it was trembling; its hairs bristled up,
and the howl changed into a shrill bark of terror and wrath. Alarmed,
she looked round; quickly between her and that ray from the crevice a
shapeless darkness passed, and was gone, so undistinguishable, so without
outline, that it had no likeness of any living form; like a cloud, like a
thought, like an omen, it came in gloom, and it vanished.

Helen was seized with a superstitious terror; the dog continued to
tremble and growl low. All once more was still; the dog sighed itself to
rest. The stillness, the solitude, the glimmer of the moon,--all
contributed yet more to appall the enfeebled nerves of the listening,
shrinking girl. At length she buried her face under the clothes, and
towards daybreak fell into a broken, feverish sleep, haunted with
threatening dreams.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE MESSENGER SPEEDS.

Towards the afternoon of the following day, an elderly gentleman was
seated in the coffee-room of an hotel at Southampton, engaged in writing
a letter, while the waiter in attendance was employed on the wires that