Chapter Twenty Four.
The Trifle that Tells Tales.
As Harry Vine left his father’s house, and hurried down the slope he gazed wildly out to sea. There were no thoughts of old Huguenot estates, or ancient titles, but France lay yonder over that glistening sea, and as he watched a cinnamon-sailed lugger gliding rapidly south and east, he longed to be aboard.
Why should he not do as Pradelle had done, escape from the dangers which surrounded and hemmed him in? It was the easiest way out of his difficulties.
There were several reasons.
To go would stamp him with the crime, and so invite pursuit. To do this was to disgrace father and sister, and perhaps be taken and dragged back.
When he reached the harbour, instead of turning down to the left, by the estuary, he made his way at once on to the shore, and after a little hesitation, picked out the spot where on the previous night he had thrown himself down, half mad with the course he had been called upon to take.
The engraved gold locket with which his nervous fingers had so often played would be lying somewhere among the stones, perhaps caught and wedged in a crevice. It was so easy when lying prone to catch such an ornament and snap it off without knowing. He looked carefully over the heap of stones, and then around in every direction; but the locket was not there.
“It must be somewhere about,” he said angrily, as if he willed that it should; but there was no sign of the glittering piece of well-polished gold, and a suspicion that had for a long time being growing increased rapidly in force, till he could bear it no longer, and once more something seemed to urge him to fly.