They were seen.
A solitary gentleman sauntering along the cliff, saw the girls go down.
He was coming from the direction of Ochre Point, but too far off to tell more than that they were two young ladies, followed by a black servant.
He thought it a little strange at that hour. It was bathing-time upon the beach. He could see the boxes discharging their gay groups in costumes of green and blue, crimson and scarlet—in the distance looking like parti-coloured Lilliputians.
“Why are these two ladies not along with them?” was his reflection. “Shell-gatherers, I suppose,” was the conjecture that followed. “Searchers after strange seaweeds. From Boston, no doubt. And I’d bet high that the nose of each is bridged with a pair of blue spectacles.”
The gentleman smiled at the conceit, but suddenly changed it. The sable complexion of the servant suggested a different conclusion.
“More like they are Southerners?” was the muttered remark.
After making it he ceased to think of them. He had a gun in his hand, and was endeavouring to get a shot at some of the large seabirds now and then sweeping along the escarpment of the cliff.
As the tide was still only commencing to return from its ebb, these flew low, picking up their food from the stranded algae that, like a fringe, followed the outlines of the shore.
The sportsman, observing this, became convinced he would have a better chance below; and down went he through one of the gaps—the first that presented itself!