There was a feeling in the air along that dark shore which accorded well with Stratton’s sensations. The solemn melancholy of the place was calming; and as he watched the sheet of spangled gold before him softly heaving and appearing to send the star reflections sweeping at last in a golden cream upon the sands, life seemed, after all, worth living, and his cares and sufferings petty and contemptible.

He wandered on close by the sea, where it broke gently in phosphorescent spray, till he was abreast of the cottage under the cliff where Brettison lodged with their charge. There was a feeble light burning, and it shed out its glow through the open door, while lamps glimmered from higher up the cliff, where three or four miniature chateaux, the property of Parisians—let to visitors to the lovely little fishing village—were snugly ensconced in the sheltering rocks.

There were voices just above the cottage, and a woman’s speaking volubly, and he fancied he recognised that of the nurse, but felt that she would hardly have left her patient, though there was no reason why she should not, for Barron would have been in bed an hour or two, and it was absurd to expect her to be always on the watch.

Stratton felt a strong desire, almost irresistible, as he gazed at the light from the cottage door, to go up, enter, and gaze at the man who had come between him and happiness. He took a few steps forward under the influence upon rum, but only to stop and think, as the voluble voice above still went on in its peculiar French.

“It would not be safe,” he thought, with a shudder. His presence had influenced the man imperceptibly when waking, might it not also as he slept?

Stratton drew back, and continued his walk along the shore, enjoying the coolness of the fiery looking water which washed over and about his feet, full, as it were, of phosphorescent creatures, while here and there to his right, where the sea lay calm amid the rocks, the water was covered with what resembled a golden, luminous oil, which flashed softly at times with a bluish tint.

“Brettison is right,” he said to himself. “Life is grand, and it is our petty cares which spoil it. Not petty, though, mine,” he added, with a sigh. “Ah! what it might be if I could but hope.”

He drew a long, deep breath, and then made an effort to forget the past in the glory of the present. He bared his head to the soft, warm night air, and walked slowly on, gazing up into the depths of the vast arch above his head, where stars innumerable shone on and on till they resembled golden dust. The grandeur of the scene impressed him, and, feeling his own littleness more and more, he resolved to cast his old despondency aside and make a fresh start from that moment, accepting all his worries as the share apportioned to him, and cease to nurse them to the exclusion of the good.

He could not help a bitter smile crossing his lips the next minute as he stopped short; for there, dimly seen before him, were two figures gazing out to sea, and so occupied by their own thoughts that they had not noticed his approach. They were talking in a low voice of the sea and the phosphorescence—nothing more; but the tone of their voices!

The old, old story breathed in every modulation, and Stratton sighed and drew silently away among the rocks farther from the sea, unnoticed by the pair, who turned and began to retrace their steps toward the lights he had left behind.

They were silent now; but just as they passed him—their figures looking like one shadow between him and the luminous sea—the man said softly:

“I often feel as if it were a sin to be so happy when I think of them.”

“Yes.”

They passed on, while Stratton felt as if he had suddenly received a tremendous blow, and he staggered back a step or two with his hands to his brow.

Guest and Edie there! Had he gone mad?

He remained for a few seconds, as if paralysed, before he could collect himself and follow the figures, which had now passed on and been swallowed up in the darkness. A cold perspiration broke out upon his face, and he walked on to overtake them—hurriedly now; but by degrees, as he drew near enough to make out their silent, shadowy figures, seeming to glide over the soft sand, he grew a little more calm.

For he felt that the fact of his dwelling so much upon the Jerrold family had made him ready to jump at the conclusion that this was Edie and her lover. He could not distinguish face or figure in the gloom, and he had only had the man’s voice to suggest the idea—the woman’s was but a whisper. They were English, of course; but what of that? It was a foolish mistake; for it was utterly impossible that Guest and Edie could be alone there that night upon those sands.

All the same, he followed to see where they went, shrinking from going closer, now that he felt less sure, in dread lest he should seem to be acting the part of spy upon two strangers; while if it were they it would be madness to speak. There was only one thing to be done: warn Brettison, and get their charge away at once.

There before him walked the pair so slowly and leisurely that he had to be careful not to overtake them. They were nearing the cottage with the open door, but the loud voice he had heard in passing was silent now, and the stillness was oppressive—the beating of his own heart and the soft whispering “whish” of the feet on the loose sand being all that was audible to his ears.

It now occurred to him that, by a little management, he would be able to convince himself that this was only a mad fancy; for the couple must pass the open door, and if he struck off a little to his left, so as to get nearer to the sea, he could hurry on unseen, and get opposite to the door, so that when they passed the light he would have them like silhouettes for a moment or two, quite long enough to make out their profiles.

He set about carrying his plan into effect, and in a minute or so was abreast of the pair, but they were quite invisible now; and, feeling that he had gone too far, as soon as he was opposite to the lighted door he began to advance slowly, expecting moment by moment to see the two figures move into the light; but they did not come.

They must pass the door, he felt, for he could recall no way up the cliff, the house perched up there being approached by a broad step-like path from the rough roadway leading up the ravine which came down to the shore with its stream, beside which, on either side, many of the cottages were built.

Still they did not come, but Stratton waited patiently, for, lover-like, they might be hanging back for a few moments before approaching the light.

At last a dark figure in front of the doorway was plainly............