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But Robert would not take me home; and my courage came back, and I held the lantern whilst he unfastened the door. Then the ghastly hand passed into the barn, and we followed it.

“It has stopped in the far corner,” I said. “There seems to be wood or something.”

“It’s bundles of wood,” he whispered. “I know the place. Sit down, and tell me if it moves.”

I sat down, and waited long and wearily, while he moved heavy bundles of firewood, pausing now and then to ask, “Is it here still?” At last he asked no more; and in a quarter of an hour he only spoke once: then it was to say–

“This plank has been moved.”

After a while he came away to look for a spade. He found one, and went back again. At last a smothered sound made me spring up and rush to him; but he met me, driving me back.

“I beg of you, dear Miss Dorothy, keep away. Have you a handkerchief with you?”

I had one, and gave it to him. His hands were covered with earth. He had only just gone back again when I gave a cry–

“Robert! It has gone!”

He came up to me, keeping one hand behind him.

“Miss Dorothy, if ever you were good and brave, hold out now!”

I beat my hands together–“It has gone! It has gone!”

“It has not gone!” he said. “Master Edmund’s hand is in this handkerchief. It has been buried under a plank of the flooring!”

I gasped, “Let me see it!”

But he would not. “No, no! my dear lady, you must not–cannot. I only knew it by the ring!”

Then he made me sit down again, whilst he replaced the firewood; and then, with the utmost quietness, we set out to return, I holding the lantern in one hand, and with the other clinging to his arm (for the apparition that had been my guide before was gone), and he carrying the awful relic in his other hand. Once, as we were leaving the yard, he whispered–

“Look!”

“I see nothing,” said I.

“Hold up your lantern,” he whispered.

“There is nothing but the dog-kennel,” I said.

“Miss Dorothy,” he said, “the dog has not barked tonight!”

By the time we reached home, my mind had fully realized the importance of our discovery, and the terribly short time left us in which to profit by it, supposing, as I fully believed, that it was the first step to the vindication of George’s innocence. As we turned into the gate, Robert, who had been silent for some time broke out–

“Miss Dorothy! Mr. George Manners is as innocent as I am; and God forgive us all for doubting him! What shall we do?”

“I am going up to town,” I said, “and you are going with me. We will go to Dr. Penn. He has a lodging close by the prison: I have the address. At eight o’clock to-morrow the king himself could not undo this injustice. We have, let me see, how many hours?”

Robert pulled out his old silver watch and brought it to the lantern.

“It is twenty minutes to twelve.”

“Rather more than eight hours. Heaven help us! You will get something to eat, Robert, and put the horses at once into the chariot. I will be ready.”

I went straight up-stairs, and met Harriet at the door. I pushed her back into the room and took her hands.

“Harriet! Robert has found poor Edmund’s hand, with the ring, buried under some wood in Thomas Parker’s barn. I am going up to town with him at once, to put the matter into Dr. Penn’s hands, and save George Manners’ life, if it be not too late.”

She wrenched her hands away, and flung herself at my feet. I never saw such a change come over any face. She had had time in the (what must have been) anxious interval of our absence, for some painful enough reflection, and my announcement had broken through the blindness of a selfish mind, and found its way where she seldom let anything come–to her feelings.