CHAPTER XLII

NEXT evening, at nine o’clock, Hellier called at the Langham.

Mademoiselle Lefarge, who had come to England in response to a telegram, was waiting for him.

“Well?” she asked, as she held both of his hands in hers.

“It is done,” said Hellier. “To-morrow your father’s name will be cleared in the sight of all men. You have suffered and waited a long, long time, but yesterday you were avenged.”

Throstle Hall, up in Cumberland, still lies empty, waiting a tenant, for Sir Anthony’s heir, a distant cousin, has no fancy for the place.

And men walk at night on the Blencarn road in couples, if they have to walk there at all, for fear of the ghost of Sir Anthony Gyde, which waits, so the legend runs, at the gate of the field leading to the Cottage on the Fells.

The End