“We’re all lost, and the half sovereign’s nothing here or there,” said Brian, in a tone of complete resignation.
Out of the mist there seemed to float a white figure of a girl. She stood for some moments with the faint mist around her, and while the group on the cliff watched her—some of them found it necessary to cling together—another white figure floated through the mist to the side of the first, and then came another figure—that of a man—only he did not float.
“I wish you would not cling quite so close to me, my dear; I can’t see anything of what’s going on,” said Lady Innisfail to Miss Stafford, whose head was certainly an inconvenience to Lady Innisfail.
With a sudden, determined movement she shifted the head from her bosom to her shoulder, and the instant that this feat was accomplished she cried out, “Helen Craven!”
“Helen Craven?” said Miss Stafford, recovering the use of her head in a moment.
“Yes, it’s Helen Craven or her ghost that’s standing there,” said Lady Innisfail.
“And Harold Wynne is with her. Are you there, Wynne?” sang out Mr. Durdan.
“Hallo?” came the voice of Harold from below. “Who is there?”
“Why, we’re all here,” cried Edmund, emerging from the mist at his side. “How on earth did you get here?—and Miss Craven—and—he looked at the third figure—he had never seen the third figure before.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” laughed Harold. “Will you give a hand to Miss Craven?”