There was a profound silence. Then the old fisherman said grimly:
"Twenty pun ain't much for a man's life, your honor."
"I will give fifty—a hundred!" he cried desperately.
"Bless your honor's heart," said the old man slowly, "no boat could live in this—that is, near the beach—it might in the open! It's to be hoped it will, for Day's out," he said significantly. "No, your honor, a thousand pounds wouldn't tempt us; besides, it's too late! too late! The poor lady is drifting out to the sands, and the last's been seen of her or ever will be seen on this earth!"
Austin Ambrose uttered a cry, an awful cry. They who heard it thought that it was that of sorrowing friend or relative; but the cry was one of pity for himself and all his shattered hopes. After all his cleverness, his deep-laid schemes and restless toil, he had been foiled—and by the woman he had fooled and deceived!
It was maddening. And indeed as he reeled away from the group he looked like a man demented.
Suddenly he heard a shout and staggered back.
A man came running toward them with something in his hand. He held the wet and dripping articles on high and surveyed his companions gravely.
"The old 'un's right!" he said slowly. "Here be the poor lady's cape and hat!"