“And that is the woman who told me she loved me!” said Stratton as he drew back behind the rocks and walked slowly away.

There was a strangely mingled feeling in his breast; one moment it was horror, the next disgust, that they two should join hands: she so young and beautiful, he prematurely aged and little better than an idiot. Then it was misery—then despair, which swept over his soul to join forces and harrow him so that he felt that he could bear no more.

It was the thought of Brettison that saved him just as the blood was rushing to his head and a stroke was imminent.

He had left his friend apparently dying, and had rushed off to save Myra.

“While I was wanted there,” he muttered in a weak, piteous way. “Ah, it has all been a dream, and now I am awake. Poor Brettison, my best friend after all.”

For a few moments the blood flushed to his temples in his resentment against Myra, and then against Guest; for, after all that he had said to him on the past night, how could he entirely accept the position he occupied and remain tacit and content there with that man in his company?

“Another slave to a woman’s charms!” he said, with a bitter laugh. “Poor old Percy! how can I blame him after what I have done myself for a weak, contemptible woman’s sake?”

He stopped short, grinding his teeth together in resentment against himself; for Myra’s sadly wasted face rose before him with her eyes full of reproach.

“It is not true,” he cried; “it is not true. She could not help herself. They have driven her to it, or else—No, no, I cannot think.”

He moved on toward the cottage, threading his way more by instinct than sight among the rocks, but only to stop short again, horrified by the thought that now assailed him. That man—Barron or Dale—it was not safe that he should be trusted with Myra. It was madness after what had taken place.

He thrust his fingers into his ears as if to shut out the voice that seemed to urge these things upon him; but the voice was within, and he hastened on more rapidly till he reached the cottage, where the fisherman’s wife was bathing Brettison’s forehead, and she gave him a frightened look as he entered.

His old friend’s eyes were opened, and he looked wildly at Stratton as he entered, and feebly raised one hand.

“Dale!” he whispered as he clung to Stratton.

“Hush! don’t talk.”

“I—must,” he said feebly. “Mind that he does not leave the place. To-night you must get help and take him away.”

“I am right, then—he did attack you?”

“Yes, not long after you had gone. I was asleep, when I was awakened with a start, thinking you had returned, but I was borne back directly. He had me by the throat. Malcolm, lad, I thought it was all over. I struggled, but he was too strong. I remember thinking of your words, and then all was blank till I saw a light in the room, and found these people attending me. I had awakened them with my groans. They do not grasp the truth. Don’t tell them. Let them think it is an affection of the throat, but we must never trust him again.”

“There will be no need,” said Stratton bitterly.

“What do you mean?”

“He has gone.”

“You have let him escape? No; you have handed him over to the police. Oh, my dear boy, you shouldn’t have done that. The man is mad.”

“I told you I should not do so,” said Stratton coldly. “You are wrong.”

“But you stand there. Good Heavens, man! Those two may meet. Don’t mind me. I am better now. Go at once.”

“No, I shall not leave you till you are fit to move.”

“It is not an illness, but an injury, which will soon pass off. Go at once. Man, do you not see that he may find her, after all.”

“He has found her,” said Stratton slowly, and speaking in a strangely mechanical way.

“What!”

“Or they have found him.” And he told the old man all he had seen.

Brettison heard him to the end, and then faintly, but with conviction in his tones, he cried:

“Impossible! It cannot be true.”

Stratton looked at him wistfully, and shook his head.

“No,” he said, drawing a deep breath; “it cannot be true.”

Brettison, whose breathing was painful, ............