"Who shall come between a man and his Maker?" asked Huxam. "Who can do that, Jacob? I wish my wife was here. Perhaps you would have thrown a light for her. It's contrary to reason to suppose such a woman should be led wrong, but so it is contrary to reason to suppose that Margery should be led wrong. I grant that—I grant that. I never did like to think it was the devil in her. No—no. You're right there. The Lord don't desert His jewels in the Dark Valley. That's where He's nearest and strongest. Perhaps, in her fine fury to save her child, my wife overlooked a thing or two."
There came a knock at the door.
"A telegram for you, Mr. Huxam," said the post-office clerk, and Barlow took it from her hands. There was but one word: 'Sinking.' He held it out to Jacob and then he spoke.
"Come," he said. "We'll go together. And God must do as He pleases."
"Where is she?"
"At Plymouth along with her uncle."
Mr. Huxam looked at his watch, then put it into his pocket hurriedly.
"We can just catch the eight-thirty down. Go forward and get two tickets. I'll come after you."
In twenty minutes they were on their way to Plymouth in a third-class carriage, empty save for themselves.
Two immense facts strove in Barlow's mind and presently he spoke, trying with the one to condone the other.