Ray was about to pass Bramwell at a bound, when the latter seized him and held him back, and, pointing to the child in the doorway, whispered, "Look!"
Ray peered into the gloom, and then came forward a pace warily, as though suspecting danger. "A child!" he cried in a whisper. "A little child! How did he come here? Do you know anything of him?"
"No." Bramwell shuddered and drew back until he could reach the support of the table, on which he rested his hand.
Ray advanced still further, and, bending his tall thin figure, asked in a muffled voice, "Who are you, my little man? and what have you got in your hand?" The child held something white in a hand which he extended to Ray.
The child did not answer, but crossed the threshold into the full light of the lamp, still offering the white object, which now could be seen to be a letter.
"What is your name, my little man?" repeated Ray, with a look of something like awe on his face.
"Don't!" whispered Bramwell, backing until he reached his chair. "Don't! Can't you see his name?"
"No. I am not able to make out what is on the paper at the distance. Give me the paper, my little lad."
Bramwell knew what the name of the child was, and Ray had a tumultuous and superstitious feeling that the coming of this child across the water in the night to the lonely islet and this solitary man had some portentous significance.
Ray took the letter from the child, and read the superscription with dull sight. Then he said, turning to Bramwell, "This does not explain how you know his name. There is nothing on this but,