Leslie followed to lend his aid, but Uncle Luke signed to him to go back.
He stood watching them till they disappeared up the narrow path leading to the old granite house, and a sense of misery such as he had never before felt swelled in the young man’s breast, for, as he watched the bent forms of the two brothers, he saw in imagination what must follow, and his brow grew heavy as he seemed to see Louise sobbing on her father’s neck, heart-broken at her loss.
“And yet I could not help clinging to the hope that he had swum ashore,” muttered Leslie, as he walked back to the inn, where he found Dr Knatchbull in conversation with the officer.
“I wish I had never seen Cornwall, sir,” said the latter warmly; “poor lad! poor lad!”
“Then there is no doubt whatever?” said Leslie hurriedly.
“Identification after all these days in the water is impossible,” said the doctor; “I mean personal identification.”
“Then it may not be after all,” said Leslie excitedly.
The detective shrugged his shoulders, and took a packet from a little black bag. This he opened carefully, and placed before Leslie a morocco pocket-book and a card-case, both stamped with a gold coronet and the motto, Roy et Foy, while, when the card-case was drawn open and its water-soaked contents were taken out, the cards separated easily, and there, plainly enough, was the inscription, the result of Aunt Marguerite’s inciting—
“Henri Comte des Vignes.”