"Pursuit is useless there," said Henry. "It is enveloped in the deepest gloom."
"I am not so unreasonable," remarked Mr. Chillingworth, "as to wish you to follow into such a place as that. I am confounded utterly by this affair."
"And I," said Marchdale. "What on earth is to be done?"
"Nothing—nothing!" exclaimed Henry, vehemently; "and yet I have, beneath the canopy of Heaven, declared that I will, so help me God! spare neither time nor trouble in the unravelling of this most fearful piece of business. Did either of you remark the clothing which this spectral appearance wore?"
"They were antique clothes," said Mr. Chillingworth, "such as might have been fashionable a hundred years ago, but not now."
"Such was my impression," added Marchdale.
"And such my own," said Henry, excitedly. "Is it at all within the compass of the wildest belief that what we have seen is a vampyre, and no other than my ancestor who, a hundred years ago, committed suicide?"
There was so much intense excitement, and evidence of mental suffering, that Mr. Chillingworth took him by the arm, saying,—
"Come home—come home; no more of this at present; you will but make yourself seriously unwell."
"No—no—no."