Mr. Sarsby wrung his hand. "It is very good of you," he declared. "I shall certainly come out before we start,—most certainly! I can't imagine what Ruby will say. Poor girl! Poor girl!"
Deane retraced his steps along the high dyke bank to the marshes which surrounded his tower. Once or twice he looked behind, looked toward the low white front of the cottage which the girl had pointed out as her abode. Once he fancied that he saw something moving in the garden, and he stood on the top of the dyke, gazing with a curious interest at the slowly moving speck passing in and out amongst the trees. Then it vanished. He turned and made his way homeward....
Towards sunset, the heat of the day seemed suddenly to increase. A curiously hot wind sprang up from the land, black clouds gathered in the sky, and unusual darkness hung over the land. The air seemed charged with electricity. Every moment it seemed as though the clouds must break and the storm come. The tide came rolling in, no longer with a faint, insistent ripple, but with great powerful waves, throwing their spray far and wide. Deane left his dinner more than once to stand outside on the little knoll and watch. Every moment he expected to see the banks of black clouds riven with lightning, to hear the far-off muttering across the sea grow nearer and nearer. The whole world seemed to be in a state of suspended animation. The seagulls had ceased their screaming, and had taken shelter in some hidden haunt. A little fleet of fishing-boats had furled their sails. Not a soul was to be seen upon the marshes.
Deane finished his dinner and sat by the wide-open window, leaning upon his folded arms, looking out at the foam-flecked sea,—foam which seemed to glitter with a clear, white phosphorescence in the failing light. There were books by his side, but he felt no inclination to read;—cigarettes and cigars at his elbow, but he lacked the enterprise to smoke. There was something almost theatrical, something breathless, in this pause before the storm! He himself was in an emotional frame of mind. Another page of this tragic chapter had opened before him. The coming of this girl was in itself a catastrophe. She would take possession of the papers belonging to the murdered man,—would show them, probably, to a lawyer. After that, only the worst could happen!
Then, as he sat there, the profound silence was suddenly broken. He heard the crunch of the gravel beneath flying footsteps, the rustle of a skirt, a little half-subdued cry! He looked up in amazement. It was Winifred Rowan who was coming towards him, her hair disordered, her eyes lit with fear,—a strange, half-terrified figure, flying from the storm!
"Miss Rowan!" he exclaimed breathlessly.
Even as he spoke, the clouds were parted at last with a dazzling blaze of forked lightning. The girl gave a little cry and held out her hands. He leaned over, and, as the thunder shook the building, took her into his arms, lifting her over the narrow window-sill into the room.