But by this time the gentleman, who followed the girl upstairs, had pushed himself into the room; and Eliza, a little frightened at his audacity, slunk timidly out and shut the door quickly behind her.
"May I ask, sir----" began Miss Bellamy frigidly, and then something in the stranger's face suddenly froze her into silence.
And yet not much of his face was to be seen, all the lower part of it being hidden in the folds of a large plaid, and the upper part shaded by the broad brim of a soft felt hat, from under which looked forth two dark melancholy eyes of singular beauty. Miss Bellamy's hands began to tremble, and she leaned against the table for support.
The stranger did not speak, but swiftly unrolling his plaid, let it half drop to the ground and took off his hat. Miss Bellamy's face grew as white as death. She started forward; and then she shrank back, all a-tremble. Gerald Warburton's eyes turned from the stranger to her, and then went back to the man; a tall, thin, frail-looking figure, with a long white beard, and white hair that fell over the collar of his coat.
"Sir--you--you are either Ambrose Murray or his ghost!" slowly gasped Miss Bellamy. "In Heaven's name, what has brought you here?"
"I have escaped!" exclaimed the man in a low, hoarse voice. "Escaped at last!"
He clasped his hands suddenly above his head, gave utterance to a short, sharp, hysterical laugh, staggered forward a few steps, and would have fallen to the ground had not Gerald Warburton caught him in his arms.
[CHAPTER IV.]
A BROKEN LIFE.
Gerald Warburton did not leave London for Pembridge next day, nor for several days afterwards.