“Then I’m off.”
Harry Vine stood gazing at vacancy; and once more tried to see his own path in the future, but all was dark.
One thing he did know, and that was that his path did not run side by side with Victor Pradelle’s. His sister’s words still rang in his ears; her kisses seemed yet to be clinging to his lips.
“No,” he said at last, moodily; “I’ll face what there is to come alone. No,” he groaned, “I could not face it, I dare not.”
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.