The night passes; the next day dawns, deepens, grows into noon, and still nothing happens to relieve the terrible anxiety that is felt by all within the castle as to the fate of its missing master.  They weary themselves out wondering, idly but incessantly, what can have become of him.

The second day comes and goes, so does the third and the fourth, the fifth and the sixth, and then the seventh dawns.

Florence Delmaine, who has been half-distracted with conflicting fears and emotions, and who has been sitting in her room apart from the others, with her head bent down and resting on her hands, suddenly raising her eyes, sees Dora standing before her.

The widow is looking haggard and hollow-eyed.  All her dainty freshness has gone, and she now looks in years what in reality she is, close on thirty-five.  Her lips are pale and drooping, her cheeks colorless; her whole air is suggestive of deep depression, the result of sleepless nights and days filled with grief and suspense of the most poignant nature.

“Alas, how well she loves him too!” thinks Florence, contemplating her in silence.  Dora, advancing, lays her hand upon the table near Florence, and says, in a hurried impassioned tone—­

“Oh, Florence, what has become of him?  What has been done to him?  I have tried to hide my terrible anxiety for the past two miserable days, but now I feel I must speak to some one or go mad!”

She smites her hands together, and, sinking into a chair, looks as if she is going to faint.  Florence, greatly alarmed, rises from her chair, and, running to her, places her arm around her as though to support her.  But Dora repulses her almost roughly and motions her away.

“Do not touch me!” she cries hoarsely.  “Do not come near me; you, of all people, should be the last to come to my assistance!  Besides, I am not here to talk about myself, but of him.  Florence, have you any suspicion?”

Dora leans forward and looks scrutinizingly at her cousin, as though fearing, yet hoping to get an answer in the affirmative.  But Florence shakes her head.

“I have no suspicion—­none,” she answers sadly.  “If I had should I not act upon it, whatever it might cost me?”

“Would you,” asks Dora eagerly, as though impressed by her companion’s words—­“whatever it might cost you?”

Her manner is so strange that Florence pauses before replying.

“Yes,” she says at last.  “No earthly consideration should keep me from using any knowledge I might by accident or otherwise become possessed of to lay bare this mystery.  Dora,” she cries suddenly, “if you know anything, I implore, I entreat you to say so.”

“What should I know?” responds the widow, recoiling.

“You loved him too,” says Florence piteously, now more than ever convinced that Dora is keeping something hidden from her.  “For the sake of that love, disclose anything you may know about this awful matter.”