He started guiltily and scared, for there was the sound of a door closing softly.
He listened, and there was a step, but it was not inside the house, it was on the shingle path; and as he darted to the old bay window, he could see a shadowy figure hurrying down the path.
“Gone!” he said in a low voice, “gone! Yes, I’ll keep my word—if I can.”
He opened the casement window, and stood there leaning against the heavy stone mullion, listening to the low soft beating of the waves far below. The cool air fanned his fevered cheek, and once more the power to think seemed to be coming back.
He had had no idea of the lapse of time, and a flash of broad sunlight came upon him like a shock, making him start away from the window; now lit up with the old family shield and crest a blaze of brilliant colour.
“Roy et Foy,” he read silently; and the words seemed to mock him.
Henri Comte des Vignes, the plotter in a robbery of the man who had been his benefactor. Perhaps his murderer.
“Comte des Vignes!” he said, with a curious laugh. “Boy! vain, weak, empty-headed boy! What have I done—what have I done?”
“Harry!”
He started round with a cry to face his sister.