"
Lydia dipped her pen in the ink and thought no more of the subject.
Bashville returned to the castle, attired himself like a country
gentleman of sporting tastes, and went out to enjoy his holiday.
The forenoon passed away peacefully. There was no sound in the
Warren Lodge except the scratching of Lydia's pen, the ticking of
her favorite skeleton clock, an occasional clatter of crockery from
the kitchen, and the voices of the birds and maids without. The hour
for lunch approached, and Lydia became a little restless. She
interrupted her work to look at the clock, and brushed a speck of
dust from its dial with the feather of her quill. Then she looked
absently through the window along the elm vista, where she had once
seen, as she had thought, a sylvan god. This time she saw a less
romantic object--a policeman. She looked again, incredulously, there
he was still, a black-bearded, helmeted man, making a dark blot in
the green perspective, and surveying the landscape cautiously. Lydia
rang the bell, and bade Phoebe ask the man what he wanted.
The girl soon returned out of breath, with the news that there were
a dozen more constables hiding in the road, and that the one she had
spoken to had given no account of himself, but had asked her how
many gates there were to the park; whether they were always locked,
and whether she had seen many people about.
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