Guest stood looking at his friend for a few moments, half astonished, half annoyed.

“Look here,” he said at last, taking his arm and drawing it through his own, “we can’t talk freely in this place. Come out and have a cigar on the sands.”

Stratton made no reply, but walked out with him like a man who had been stunned, Guest taking the direction opposite to that in which the admiral’s temporary home lay. Then, stopping short by the ebbing sea, he drew out his cigar case and offered it; but it was waved aside.

“Quite right,” said Guest shortly; “we can’t smoke now. Look here, old fellow, I shouldn’t be your friend if I did not speak out when you were in the wrong. You must have known we were coming here, and you must see now that you have done, as I said, a cruel thing in coming; so give me your word as a man of honour that you will be ready to start with me in the morning first thing.”

“I tell you I did not know they were coming here,” said Stratton in a deep, solemn tone; “I tell you I did not follow you, and I tell you that I cannot leave here with you in the morning.”

“Then how in the world did you come here?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it was fate.”

“Bosh! Who believes in fate? Don’t talk nonsense, man. I am horribly sorry for you, as sorry as I can be for a man who is my friend, but who has never trusted or confided in me; but I stand now toward the admiral and Myra in such a position that I cannot keep aloof and see them insulted—well, I will not say that—see their feelings hurt by the reckless conduct of a man who is in the wrong.”

“In the wrong?” said Stratton involuntarily.

“Yes, in the wrong. You have wronged Myra.”

Stratton sighed.

“And made her the wreck she is. I don’t say you could have made things better by speaking out—that is your secret—but I do say you could make matters better by keeping away.”

“Yes, I must go away as soon as possible.”

“You will, then?” cried Guest eagerly. “In the morning?”

“No; yes, if I can get away.”

“That’s quibbling, man; an excuse to get near and see her,” cried Guest angrily.

“I swear it is not,” cried Stratton. “You will not believe me even after seeing your letter—which I had forgotten—was unopened.”

“I can’t, Mal. I wish to goodness I could.”

“Never mind. I can say no more.”

“You mean that you will say no more,” said Guest shortly.

“I mean what I said,” replied Stratton.

“Very well. You must take your road; I must take mine.”

Stratton was silent, and Guest turned short round on his heel, took a couple of steps away, but turned back.

“Mal, old chap, you make me wild,” he cried, holding out his hand. “I know it’s hard to bear—I know how you loved her, but sacrifice self for your honour’s sake; be a man, and come away. There, I’ll walk with you to the post town. You’ll come?”

“I cannot yet.”

“Why?”

“It is better that I should not tell you,” replied Stratton firmly. “Will you trust me?”

“Will you confide in me, and tell me all your reasons for this strange conduct?”

“Some day; not now.”

“You will not trust me, and you ask me to trust you. It can’t be done, man; you ask too much. Once more, are we to be friends?”

“Yes.”

“Then you will go?”

“Yes.”

“At once?”

“No.”

“Bah!” ejaculated Guest angrily, and he turned and strode away, while Stratton uttered a low sigh of misery, and yet of relief, for his friend’s presence was irksome to him now that he wanted to act.

He waited until Guest had been gone for some minutes, and then, taking a short cut, he strode along the sands, half in dread of encountering him again, but feeling that he must risk it, though certain that if they did meet Guest would reproach him with going toward the admiral’s residence in order to obtain an interview with Myra.

“He must think it—he must think it,” muttered Stratton as he hurried on, now stumbling over a piece of rock, now slipping on some heap of weed left by the tide. But he pressed forward, making straight for a light which shone out plainly half-way up the cliff, and which he instinctively judged to be at Sir Mark’s abode, and a sense of despair clutched his heart as he felt how he was to be so near and yet dared not even look, much less speak.

Suddenly he found that, though he was making straight for the cliff, he was wading through water; but he kept on, believing that he had entered a pool left by the tide, till the water rose from his ankles to his knees, and a rushing sound warned him that the tide had turned and was coming in fast. Then he knew that he must have been walking along one of the spits of sand round which the flowing tide curved, and that if he retraced his steps it might be to find the other end covered, besides losing time.

The darkness confused him, and he stopped, hesitating for a few moments; then, feeling that, whether the water deepened or receded, he must press on, he drew a deep breath and moved forward, the tide soon rising to his waist, and a wave nearly taking him off his legs.

Was it to be his fate to be drowned now at such a critical time, he asked himself, there in sight of the light that might be shining from the room which the woman he sought to save from suffering now occupied?

As this thought ran through his mind the waves rushed back with a hiss, the water falling to his knees, and, making a dash forward he found that he had passed the deepest part of the channel scooped by the tide in the sand. Five minutes later he was on dry land, with the water streaming from him, and soon after the light which had been his guide disappeared.

He rightly judged, though, that it must be from his having approached nearer to the cliff; and, pressing on in spite of the darkness, he at last reached it, but was unable to judge whether he was to right or left of the cottage that he sought.

Once more he felt in despair, for he knew that time was gliding rapidly by, and that by some means they ought to leave before day.

He was about to try off to the right when all at once he heard voices above his head to the............