A dull and foggy day with a drizzle of rain.

The house is banked in with rolling clouds, which rise now and then to show the dreary curves of the moor, with thin, silver veins upon the sides of the hills, and the distant boulders gleaming where the light strikes upon their wet faces.

It is melancholy outside and in.

The baronet is in a black reaction after the excitements of the night.

I am conscious myself of a weight at my heart and a feeling of impending danger--ever present danger, which is the more terrible because I am unable to define it.
And have I not cause for such a feeling?
Consider the long sequence of incidents which have all pointed to some sinister influence which is at work around us.