“the end has come sooner than i expected.” these were the sad words i muttered to myself as waving my frightened servant away i closed the door, and stood alone with the supposed maniac. he rose and wrung my hand, then without a word sank back into his chair and buried his face in his hands. a sort of nervous trembling seemed to run through his frame. deeply distressed i drew his hands from his face.

“now, carriston,” i said, as firmly as i could, “look up, and tell me what all this means. look up, i say, man, and speak to me.”

he raised his eyes to mine, and kept them there, whilst a ghastly smile—a phantom humor—flickered across his white face. no doubt his native quickness told him what i suspected, so he looked me full and steadily in the face.

“no,” he said, “not as you think. but let there be no mistake. question me. talk to me. put me to any test. satisfy yourself, once for all, that i am as sane as you are.”

he spoke so rationally, his eyes met mine so unflinchingly, that i was rejoiced to know that my fears were as yet ungrounded. there was grief, excitement, want of rest in his appearance, but his general manner told me he was, as he said, as sane as i was.

“thank heaven you can speak to me and look at me like this,” i exclaimed.

“you are satisfied then?” he said.

“on this point, yes. now tell me what is wrong?”

now that he had set my doubts at rest his agitation and excitement seemed to return. he grasped my hand convulsively.

“madeline!” he whispered; “madeline—my love—she is gone.”

“gone!” i repeated. “gone where?”

“she is gone, i say—stolen from me by some black-hearted traitor—perhaps forever. who can tell?”

“but, carriston, surely, in so short a time her love cannot have been won by another. if so, all i can say is—”

“what!” he shouted. “you have seen her! you in your wildest dreams to imagine that madeline rowan would leave me of her own free-will! no, sir; she has been stolen from me—entrapped—carried away—hidden. but i will find her, or i will kill the black-hearted villain who has done this.”

he rose and paced the room. his face was distorted with rage. he clinched and unclinched his long slender hands.

“my dear fellow,” i said; “you are talking riddles. sit down and tell me calmly what has happened. but, first of all, as you look utterly worn out, i will ring for my man to get you some food.”

“no,” he said; “i want nothing. weary i am, for i have been to scotland and back as fast as man can travel. i reached london a short time ago, and after seeing one man have come straight to you, my only friend, for help—it may be for protection. but i have eaten and i have drank, knowing i must keep my health and strength.”

however, i insisted on some wine being brought. he drank a glass, and then with a strange enforced calm, told me what had taken place. his tale was this:

after we had parted company on our return from[229] scotland, carriston went down to the family seat in oxfordshire, and informed his uncle of the impending change in his life. the baronet, an extremely old man, infirm and all but childish, troubled little about the matter. every acre of his large property was strictly entailed, so his pleasure or displeasure could make but little alteration in his nephew’s prospects. still, he was the head of the family, and carriston was in duty bound to make the important news known to him. the young man made no secret of his approaching marriage, so in a very short time every member of the family was aware that the heir and future head was about to ally himself to a nobody. knowing nothing of madeline rowan’s rare beauty and sweet nature carriston’s kinsmen and kinswomen were sparing with their congratulations. indeed, mr. ralph carriston, the cousin whose name was coupled with such absurd suspicions, went so far as to write a bitter, sarcastic letter, full of ironical felicitations. this, and charles carriston’s haughty reply, did not make the affection between the cousins any stronger. moreover, shortly afterward the younger man heard that inquiries were being made in the neighborhood of madeline’s home as to her position and parentage. feeling sure that only his cousin ralph could have had the curiosity to institute such inquiries, he wrote and thanked him for the keen interest he was manifesting in his future welfare, but begged that hereafter mr. carriston would apply to him direct for any information he wanted. the two men were now no longer on speaking terms.

charles carriston in his present frame of mind cared little whether his relatives wished to bless or forbid the banns. he was passionately in love, and at once set[230] about making arrangements for a speedy marriage. although madeline was still ignorant of the exalted position held by her lover—although she came to him absolutely penniless—he was resolved in the matter of money to treat her as generously as he would have treated the most eligible damsel in the country. there were several legal questions to be set at rest concerning certain property he wished to settle upon her. this of course caused delay. as soon as they were adjusted to his own, or rather to his lawyer’s satisfaction, he purposed going to scotland and carrying away his beautiful bride. in the meantime he cast about for a residence.

somewhat bohemian in his nature, carriston had no intention of settling down just yet to live the life of an ordinary moneyed englishman. his intention was to take madeline abroad for some months. he had fixed upon cannes as a desirable place at which to winter, but having grown somewhat tired of hotel life, wished to rent a furnished house. he had received from an agent to whom he had been advised to apply the refusal of a house, which, from the glowing description given, seemed the one above all others he wanted. as an early decision was insisted upon, my impulsive young friend thought nothing of crossing the channel and running down to the south of france to see, with his own eyes, that the much-lauded place was worthy of the fair being who was to be its temporary mistress.

he wrote to madeline, and told her he was going from home for a few days. he said he should be travelling the greater part of the time, so it should be no use her writing to him until his return. he did[231] not reveal the object of his journey. were madeline to know it was to choose a winter residence at cannes she would be filled with amazement, and the innocent deception he was still keeping up would not be carried through to the romantic end which he pictured to himself.

the day before he started for france madeline wrote that her aunt was very unwell, but said nothing as to her malady causing any alarm. perhaps carriston thought less about the old scotch widow than her relationship and kindness to miss rowan merited. he started on his travels without any forebodings of evil.

his journey to cannes and back was hurried; he wasted no time on the road, but was delayed for two days at the place itself before he could make final arrangements with the owner and the present occupier of the house. thinking he was going to start every moment, he did not write to madeline—at the rate at which he meant to return, a letter posted in england would reach her almost as quickly as if posted at cannes.

he reached his home, which for the last few weeks had been oxford, and found two letters waiting for him. the first, dated on the day he left england, was from madeline. it told him that her aunt’s illness had suddenly taken a fatal turn—that she had died that day, almost without warning. the second letter was anonymous.

it was written apparently by a woman, and advised mr. carr to look sharply after his lady-love or he would find himself left in the lurch. the writer would not be surprised to hear some fine day that she had eloped with a certain gentleman who should be nameless.[232] this precious epistle, probably an emanation of feminine spite, carriston treated as it deserved—he tore it up and threw the pieces to the wind.

but the thought of madeline being alone at that lonely house troubled him greatly. the dead woman had no sons or daughters; all the anxiety and responsibility connected with her affairs would fall on the poor girl. the next day he threw himself into the scotch express and started for her far-away home.

on arriving there he found it occupied only by the rough farm servants. they seemed in a state of wonderment, and volubly questioned carriston as to the whereabouts of madeline. the question sent a chill of fear to his heart. he answered their questions by others, and soon learned all they had to communicate.

little enough it was. on the morning after the old woman’s funeral madeline had gone to callendar to ask the advice of an old friend of her aunt’s as to what steps should now be taken. she had neither been to this friend, nor had she returned home. she had, however, sent a message that she must go to london at once, and would write from there. that was the last heard of her—all that was known about her.

upon hearing this news carriston became a prey to the acutest terror—an emotion which was quite inexplicable to the honest people, his informants. the girl had gone, but she had sent word whither she had gone. true, they did not know the reason for her departure, so sudden and without luggage of any description; true, she had not written as promised, but no doubt they would hear from her to-morrow. carriston knew better. without revealing the extent of his fears he flew back to callendar. inquiries at the railway[233] station informed him that she had gone, or had purposed going, to london; but whether she ever reached it, or whether any trace of her could be found there, was at least a matter of doubt. no good could be gained by remaining in scotland, so he travelled back at once to town, half-distracted, sleepless, and racking his brain to know where to look for her.

“she has been decoyed away,” he said in conclusion. “she is hidden, imprisoned somewhere. and i know, as well as if he told me, who has done this thing. i can trace ralph carriston’s cursed hand through it all.”

i glanced at him askance. this morbid suspicion of his cousin amounted almost to monomania. he had told the tale of madeline’s disappearance clearly and tersely; but when he began to account for it his theory was a wild and untenable one. however much he suspected ralph carriston of longing to stand in his shoes, i could see no object for the crime of which he accused him, that of decoying away madeline rowan.

“but why should he have done this?” i asked. “to prevent your marriage? you are young; he must have foreseen that you would marry some day.”

carriston leaned toward me, and dropped his voice to a whisper.

“this is his reason,” he said; “this is why i come to you. you are not the only one who has entirely misread my nature, and seen a strong tendency to insanity in it. of course i know that you are all wrong, but i know that ralph carriston has stolen my love—stolen her because he thinks and hopes that her loss will drive me mad—perhaps drive me to kill myself. i went straight to him—i have just come from him. brand, i tell you that when i taxed him with the[234] crime—when i raved at him—when i threatened to tear the life out of him—his cold, wicked eyes leaped with joy. i heard him mutter between his teeth, ‘men have been put in strait-waistcoats for less than this.’ then i knew why he had done this. i curbed myself and left him. most likely he will try to shut me up as a lunatic; but i count upon your protection—count upon your help to find my love.”

that any man could be guilty of such a subtle refinement of crime as that of which he accused his cousin seemed to me, if not impossible, at least improbable. but as at present there was no doubt about my friend’s sanity i promised my aid readily.

“and now,” i said, “my dear boy, i won’t hear another word to-night. nothing can be done until to-morrow; then we will consult as to what steps should be taken. drink this and go to bed; yes, you are as sane as i am, but, remember, insomnia soon drives the strongest man out of his senses.”

i poured out an opiate. he drank it obediently. before i left him for the night i saw him in bed and sleeping a heavy sleep.