Stratton went to his room, put out his light, and threw open the casement to sit and listen to the wash and rush of the coming tide. It was darker than ever, for the sea fog had grown dense, and the water sobbed and moaned among the rocks, and splashed against the sides of the fishing boats in a way that in the silence of the night sounded mysterious and strange.

All this added to Stratton’s depression, and the sense of coming trouble. It was impossible to pass it over as imaginary, face to face as he was with the terrible difficulties before him; for in that tiny place, unless Barron was hurried away, a meeting was imminent, and it was his doing—his.

Guest laughed at the idea of his presence there being due to fate, he recalled; but how else could he think of the strange complication but as being wrought out by a greater directing hand? “And for what?” he muttered. Could it be only to inflict fresh torture upon a gentle, loving woman?

The mental outlook was as black and misty as that across the sands to the moaning, sighing sea; and as Stratton sat there, with the damp, soft air cooling his brow, he longed for rest, and thought of the peace and gentle calm that he might find if he could take a boat and sail right away into the soft, black darkness.

He shook his head mournfully, though, for he knew that he could not sail away from his thoughts, and that it would be the act of a coward to try and escape from the sufferings which fell to his lot.

To sleep was impossible. He did not even think of lying down, but sat there waiting for the first streaks of day with the face of Myra always before him, her eyes looking gravely into his with a sweet, trustful tenderness, which made him recall her visit to his chambers that night when she knelt before him with her arms outstretched to take him to her breast, and he asked himself why he had shrunk from her—why he had not crushed down conscience, and the horror of his having slain her husband, and taken her away—anywhere so that they two could have been together far from the world and its ways.

For his dread had been his own making. It was not real. The shot was an accident, not even dealt by his own hand, and the man had lived. Myra would have been his, and they might have been happy.

Was it too late, even now? If he could only reach her ear and tell her how all stood. She loved him—he knew that. Once with Myra meant till death, and she would follow him to the world’s end.

“And I sit here,” he cried, and started from his seat, “when she is there yonder waiting for me. A word would rouse her from her sleep, if she does sleep. She may be sitting at her window even now, wakeful and wretched as I, and ready to trust me, to let me lead her far away from all this misery and despair. Heaven never could mean us to suffer as we do. It is a natural prompting. She must be waiting for me now.”

The moments of exaltation passed, and he sank down again to bury his face in his hands, knowing that it was all the madness of a despairing man.

No; he could do nothing but that which he and Brettison had planned—nothing but wait for the morning, which was yet hours away.

He grew calmer as the night passed on; firmer, too, and there was a quiet determination in his thoughts as he felt that some day Myra would know all that he had done, and perhaps, after all, happiness might be theirs.

For hope came with the approach of day, and when at last the first pale dawn appeared in the east, and by degrees there was a delicious opalescent tint on the waves, where a soft breeze was slowly wafting away the mist, it was a calm, grave, thoughtful man, nerved to the day’s task, who went forth with the knowledge that the people of the inn were already stirring, for, as he stepped out, a casement was opened, and the landlady greeted him with the customary bon jour.

Stratton returned the greeting, and told her his requirements—a sailing boat and men to take him and his friends for a good long cruise.

“Ah, yes!” said the landlady; “of course, and monsieur would pay them well,”—and at another time there were Jacques, and Jean, and André, and many more who would have been so glad—for it was going to be a day superb: look at the light on the water like the silver and sheen upon a mackerel, to prove her words—but the hands went out last night, and would not return in time from the fishing.

“But was there no one else?”

“Not a soul, monsieur. Why, there was a great nobleman—an old sea admiral—English, at the little chateau who had sent only last night, wanting a boat to sail with the beautiful ladies he had brought, one of whom was a stately old marquise, at least, with hair grey; but no, he could not have a boat for any money. Why could not monsieur take his sick friend for a beautiful long drive?”

Stratton jumped at the proposal.

“Yes; that would do,” he said.

“Then Guillaume should have the horse and chaise ready at any time monsieur chose to name.”

A sense of relief came over Stratton as he finished his arrangements. The car was to be waiting till the sick friend was brought over, and then they would start at once—after breakfast—no, perhaps sooner. It was to be ready for them to start at any time; for the invalid was capricious; and it was uncertain when they would come back.

Stratton could do no more but wait. He dared not show himself for fear the admiral might be out early; and he shuddered at the idea of the old man strolling about on the sands and encountering Brettison and his charge.

But he felt that his old friend would take care, and, going back to his rooms with the intention of forcing himself to wait patiently, he watched the sun rise in all its glory over the sea of fire, while the clouds and mists around were one blaze of effulgent hues.

It was impossible to help a feeling of elation as nature smiled upon him full of hope and joy; and the determination to act manfully and well grew and grew in Stratton’s breast as, in obedience to a thought, he went to where a glass hung in the passage of the little inn, and took it up to his window.

It was with throbbing heart that he adjusted it, and brought it to bear upon the pretty little chateau high upon the cliff, covered with creepers, and with its terrace garden a mass of flowers.

He scanned window after window, but not a soul was visible, and after a time he brought it to bear on the fisher’s cottage at the foot of the cliff, where he saw the smoke curling up clear and blue, though it was quite a mile away. Dale’s brawny French nurse stood outside in the early morning sunshine knitting. The............