His piteous, reproachful voice went to the heart of his hearers.
“Tell me,” he continued earnestly, “Mr Leslie, the truth.”
“There is nothing to tell, sir,” said Leslie gravely, “so far it is only surmise. Come with us and wait.”
Their suspense was not of long duration. In a very short time they were summoned from where they were waiting to another room, where Dr Knatchbull came forward with a face so full of the gravity of the situation, that any hope which flickered in Duncan Leslie’s breast died out on the instant; and he heard George Vine utter a low moan, as, arm in arm, the two brothers advanced for the identification, and then Luke led his brother away.
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.”