He would sit on, and never call for lights.
The first night, I brought candles, as of course;
He let me set them on the table, true;
But soon's my back was turned, he put them out.

_Stephen_.
Where is the lady?

_Hostess_.
That's the strangest thing
Of all the story: she has disappeared,
As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead,
White as my apron. The whole house was empty,
Just as I told you.

_Stephen_.
Has no search been made?
_Host_.
The closest search; a thousand pieces offered
For any information that should lead
To the murderer's capture. I believe his brother,
Who is his heir, they say, is still in town,
Seeking in vain for some intelligence.

_Stephen_.
'Tis very odd; the oddest thing I've heard
For a long time. Send me a pen and ink;
I have to write some letters.

_Hostess (rising_).