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Dr. Read, who was also standing by his horse, faced the young man with a smile.

“You nearly rode into me,” he said. “You ought not to give reins to an animal of that sort on a dark night.”

“I am extremely sorry, but you had no lamp to your carriage. I certainly did not expect to meet anyone on this rough bit of road. What is the matter, doctor? What patient has called you out such a night as this?”

“I am just returning from the Grange,” said Dr. Read; “have you not heard?”

“Heard what?—is anyone ill there?—surely not Miss Nancy!”

“Bless you, Nancy Follett is well enough, unless indeed, poor child, she dies of her sorrows. What an old ruffian that father of hers is? Well, he is dying now: his grief is evidently bringing him to his grave. By the way, talking of mysteries, I believe I have got a clue to the shadow which hangs over the old Grange.”

“And what is that?” asked Rowton, a tone of interest coming into his voice.

“Why, they say that this old man, Dr. Follett, is no other than the well-known physician of the name who performed such wonderful cures in Harley Street some years back—you must have heard of the great Dr. Follett.”