Tchigorsky shrugged his shoulders.
"What matter?" he said. "The few suffer for the many. Well, as I was saying——"
The speaker paused suddenly as his eye caught something moving along the beach. It was the figure of a woman creeping along as if in search of some missing object. She proceeded very slowly until she approached the spot where the boat lay filled and sunk, and then she paused abruptly.
For a minute she stood fascinated by the sight, then she flung her hands high in the air, and a bitter wailing cry escaped her. If she had been a fisherman's wife suddenly brought face to face with the dead body of her husband or lover, her wail of anguish had not been more poignant.
"Who can she be?" Geoffrey asked.
Tchigorsky said nothing. The woman stood with her hands raised. As she turned and ran towards the cliffs, moaning as she went, Geoffrey started.
"Marion," he said. "Marion."
He would have dashed forward, but Tchigorsky restrained him.
"That is not your Marion," he said. "Your Marion does not dress like that."