Dawn the next morning was heralded by only a thin line of red parting the masses of black-grey snow clouds which still hung low down in the east.

The wind had dropped, and there was something ghostly about the still twilight as Dominey issued from the back regions and made his way through the untrodden snow round to the side of the house underneath Rosamund's window.

A little exclamation broke from his lips as he stood there.

From the terraced walks, down the steps, and straight across the park to the corner of the Black Wood, were fresh tracks.

The cry had been no fantasy.