Attorney, Aberdeen. He stated that he had
come by it thus. Shortly before leaving
Geneva, it had been his duty to inspect the
"recolte" of various vineyards: among them
one belonging to the Château d'Osman some
miles distant. The house itself was tenanted
by an English lady, who was said to be mad
or imbecile. At all events she was never
heard to speak, and was closely watched by
her attendants night and day. She walked
on a terrace overlooking the vineyard, but it
was never out of sight of a gaunt woman,
who was, no doubt, her keeper. The intendant
of the estate, who told Jean Marcel
these particulars, walked through the vineyard
with him, when they saw the unhappy
lady on the terrace above. Her appearance
had much interested Marcel. He described
her as a handsome woman, but with a fixed,
woe-begone expression of face, and wearing
a black cloak, which entirely concealed her
person. In the course of Marcel's inspection,
they stood for some time just under
the terrace wall, and he spoke to the intendant
of his approaching voyage to Aberdeen.
There was no doubt but that he was overheard
by the lady on the terrace. She disappeared,
but a quarter of an hour later,
while they were still near the wall, the two
men heard the sound of a running footstep
upon the terrace, followed by a plaintive
moaning, like that of a wounded bird. They
looked up, and there she stood, glancing
round with an expression of terror to see if
she was followed, and of earnest supplication
towards the two men beneath. She
opened her mouth wide—a clear proof, the
intendant seemed to think, of the poor
creature's imbecility—then raised both arms
up high, when, to his horror, he perceived
that she had lost her right hand. With her
left, she then suddenly dropped over the
wall a paper with a stone inside, and had
scarcely done this, when her gaunt attendant
appeared upon the terrace. The poor
lady's whole demeanour changed; the old
fixed look returned, and she began once
more, with slow uncertain steps, to pace the
terrace. To gratify her, Marcel picked up
the paper, and pocketed it, as he walked
away. As soon as he was out of sight he
examined it.

Outside was scrawled, "Pour l'amour de
Dieu remettez cette lettre à son adresse."
Within was the note addressed to Pilson.
The intendant laughed at the affair, and
tried to persuade Marcel to tear up the
note. "All mad people imagine themselves
to be sane, and this one no doubt wants to
persuade her friends that she is unjustly
confined; but you need only look at her to
see that she is a lunatic."

Marcel admitted the probability of this,
but he could not bring himself to destroy
the paper. Whether she was mad or not,
the condition of this maimed unhappy
creature had aroused his compassion so
deeply, that he declared the first thing he
would do on arriving at Aberdeen would be
to find out the person to whom this note
was addressed. And he had done so.

When he had finished this strange narrative,
Pilson laid before me a scrap of paper
—evidently the blank page torn out of the
end of a book—on which was scrawled:

"Help! for God's sake, help! before they
kill me. Oh, save me, Mr. Pilson, save me, as
you hope to be saved hereafter. E. DUNBLANE."

We looked at each other for some minutes
without speaking. At last Pilson said:

"If I consulted my own interest, I should
remain silent, or simply enclose these lines
to his lordship. Her ladyship's condition,
no doubt, justifies any steps that have been
taken. I cannot suspect my lord; and if
he discovers that I have interfered in his
domestic concerns, he will certainly take
the management of his affairs out of my
hands. But, on the other hand, does not
humanity call for some investigation into
this? I could not die at peace, remembering
that I had turned a deaf ear to such a
cry; but I am puzzled what to do, Mr.
Carthews. It has occurred to me that you
may have business connexions with Geneva,
and might, perhaps, make inquiries which
would not compromise you as they would me."

In other words, Pilson was anxious to
ease his conscience at as little risk to
himself as might be. I did not blame him;
my interest was too deeply stirred for me
not to follow up the inquiry with the
keenest avidity. But then, as Pilson had
hinted, it is true that I had nothing to lose.
I promised him that I would write that
very day to a correspondent at Geneva, and
desire him to leave no stone unturned towards
discovering the truth.

I had to wait some weeks for the answer.
The commission was one the execution of
which was beset with difficulties. The village
pasteur, the doctor, the intendant of
the vineyards, and all the neighbours were
applied to, but little additional information
could be gathered. At last the maire of
the district was induced to investigate the
case, upon representations being made to