"Jack! Jack!"
Uniacke sprang up, pushing back his chair violently. It caught in a rug that lay on the bare wooden floor and fell with a crash to the ground.
"Jack! Jack!"
The word came to his ears now in a sort of strident howl that was hardly human. He began to tremble. But still he did not recognise the voice.
"Jack!"
It was cried under the window of the parlour, fiercely, frantically. Uniacke knew the voice for the mad Skipper's. He delayed no longer, but hastened to the front room and stared out across the churchyard.
The Skipper, with his huge hands uplifted, his fingers working as if they strove to strangle something invisible in the air, was stumbling among the graves. His face was red and convulsed with excitement.
"Jack!" he shouted hoarsely, "Jack!"
And he went on desperately towards the sea, pursuing—nothing.
Uniacke looked away from him towards the place where Sir Graham had been painting. The easel stood there with the canvas resting upon the wooden pins. On the ground before it was huddled a dark thing.