Poor Gatliffe was stupefied with astonishment and fear.
“But this is murder,” cried he.
“Not so,” returned his companion with perfect composure—“he has fallen over the cliff. Do you understand?”
“I will be no party to such an act of atrocity,” said he. “Oh, miserably guilty woman, have you no pity, no remorse?”
“Not any for him—none whatever.”
Gatliffe, who was at this time almost beside himself, looked over the cliff.
The tide had been at the flood about half-an-hour before the murderous act. It was now flowing out. Gatliffe saw a dark speck on the water, which he judged to be the head of Purvis.
He rushed madly from the spot, and made for a narrow cutting which led to the sea-shore.
But one dominant thought possessed him. He had a burning desire to save the victim of the atrocious outrage.
But how this was to be accomplished he could not very well determine. When he came to the end of the cutting, his eyes rested on a boat, which had been moored against a stake driven into the sands.