He came nearer, looked at them, and passed them by--passed as one who knew them not, and was but faintly curious about them. He passed and walked quickly up towards the Point, with the rapid swinging movements of one who was glad to tread the solid earth. No, it was not Lostwithiel. She had thought at first that no one else could look so like him at so short a distance; no one else could have that tall, slender figure, and easy, buoyant walk. But the face she saw in the moonlight was not his. It was like, but not the same: darker, with larger features, a face of less delicacy and distinction; but oh, God! how like the eyes that had looked at her, with that brief glance of casual inspection, were to those other eyes that had poured their passionate story into her own that unforgotten night when she sat out the after-supper waltzes in the ante-room at the Talbot. She could not have believed that any man living could so recall the man whose name she never spoke of her own free will. There were some sailors standing about at the top of the steep little bit of road leading down to the granite causeway, and their voices sounded fresh and clear in the still evening, mixed with the rippling rush of the water as it came running up the stones. The moonlight shone full upon one of the men as he stood with his face towards the sea, and Isola read the name upon the front of his jersey. “_Vendetta._” “_Vendetta_,” cried Allegra, quick to observe the name. “Why, is not that Lord Lostwithiel’s yacht?” “Yes--I think so,” faltered Isola. “Then that must have been Lord Lostwithiel who passed as just now; and yet you would have known him, wouldn’t you?” “That was not Lord Lostwithiel.” “A friend of his, I suppose; such a nice-looking man, too. There was something so frank and cheery in his look as he just glanced at us both and marched briskly on. He did not pay us the compliment of seeming curious. I wonder who he is?” Isola was wondering about something else. She was looking with a frightened gaze across the harbour, towards that one break in the long golden trail of the moonbeams where the _Vendetta_ cast her shadow on the water. There were lamps gleaming brightly here and there upon the vessel--a look of occupation. “Is Lord Lostwithiel on board his yacht?” Allegra asked of one of the sailors, not ashamed to appear inquisitive. “No, ma’am; Mr. Hulbert is skipper.” “Who is Mr. Hulbert?” “His lordship’s brother.” “Was that he who went up towards the Point just now?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Is he going to stop here long, do you know?” “I don’t think he knows himself, ma’am. It’ll depend upon the weather most likely. If we get a fair wind we may be off to the Lizard at an hour’s notice, and away up north to the Hebrides.” “Doesn’t that seem inconsistent?” exclaimed Allegra, as they walked homewards. “What is the good of coming to Cornwall if he wants to go to the Hebrides? It must be very much out of his way.”