That man was Luke Darvil.

His cottage was searched; but he also had fled.

The trace of cart-wheels by the gate of Maltravers gave a faint clue to pursuit; and after an active search of some days, persons answering to the description of the suspected burglars--with a young female in their company--were tracked to a small inn, notorious as a resort for smugglers, by the sea-coast.
But there every vestige of their supposed whereabouts disappeared.
And all this was told to the stunned Maltravers; the garrulity of the gardener precluded the necessity of his own inquiries, and the name of Darvil explained to him all that was dark to others.

And Alice was suspected of the basest and the blackest guilt! Obscure, beloved, protected as she had been, she could not escape the calumny from which he had hoped everlastingly to shield her.

But did _he_ share that hateful thought?
Maltravers was too generous and too enlightened.
"Dog!" said he, grinding his teeth, and clenching his hands, at the startled menial, "dare to utter a syllable of suspicion against her, and I will trample the breath out of your body!" The old woman, who had vowed that for the 'varsal world she would not stay in the house after such a "night of shakes," had now learned the news of her master's return, and came hobbling up to him.