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He was half-clothed, pale as the white dress of Isabella Dallas, and evidently, from the wild look in his eyes and the quivering of his nether lip, badly scared. Stopping short a few paces from the door, he held up the lamp which he carried, to survey the astonishing scene before him. The sight of Jen tongue-tied and immovable, of Isabella weeping on her knees by the bedside, of the bed itself vacant of its dead occupant--all these things were calculated to shock even stronger nerves than those of David Sarby. Nevertheless, after a pause of sheer astonishment, he managed to stammer out a question:, "You'd better go, man, before I bring my father to set our dog on you," he exploded, and, before I could stop him, his thin little legs went trundling down the garden path toward home., "But," added Jen, raising his head, "as until that explanation we are enemies--although not openly so--I shall require you to leave my house.".