That frightful journey—no nightmare was ever half so awful! But it came to an end at last—there was the Bryngelly Station. Geoffrey sprang from the train, and gave his ticket to the porter, glancing in his face as he did so. Surely if there had been a tragedy the man would know of it, and show signs of half-joyous emotion as is the fashion of such people when something awful and mysterious has happened to somebody else. But he showed no such symptoms, and a glimmer of hope found its way into Geoffrey’s tormented breast. He left the station and walked rapidly towards the Vicarage. Those who know what a pitch of horror suspense can reach may imagine his feelings as he did so. But it was soon to be put an end to now. As he drew near the Vicarage gate he met the fat Welsh servant girl Betty running towards him. Then hope left Geoffrey. The girl recognised him, and in her confusion did not seem in the least astonished to see him walking there at a quarter to seven on a summer morning. Indeed, even she vaguely connected Geoffrey with Beatrice in her mind, for she at once said in her thick English: “Oh, sir, do you know where Miss Beatrice is?” “No,” he answered, catching at a railing for support. “Why do you ask? I have not seen her for weeks.” Then the girl plunged into a long story. Mr. Granger and Miss Granger were away from home, and would not be back for another two hours. Miss Beatrice had gone out yesterday afternoon, and had not come back to tea. She, Betty, had not thought much of it, believing that she had stopped to spend the evening somewhere, and, being very tired, had gone to bed about eight, leaving the door unlocked. This morning, when she woke, it was to find that Miss Beatrice had not slept in the house that night, and she came out to see if she could find her. “Where was she going when she went out?” Geoffrey asked. She did not know, but she thought that Miss Beatrice was going out in the canoe. Leastways she had put on her tennis shoes, which she always wore when she went out boating. Geoffrey understood it all now. “Come to the boat-house,” he said. They went down to the beach, where as yet none were about except a few working people. Near the boat-house Geoffrey met old Edward walking along with a key in his hand. “Lord, sir!” he said. “You here, sir! and in that there queer hat, too. What is it, sir?” “Did Miss Beatrice go out in her canoe yesterday evening, Edward?” Geoffrey asked hoarsely. “No, sir; not as I know on. My boy locked up the boat-house last night, and I suppose he looked in it first. What! You don’t mean to say——Stop; we’ll soon know. Oh, Goad! the canoe’s gone!” There was a silence, an awful silence. Old Edward broke it. “She’s drowned, sir—that’s what she is—drowned at last; and she the finest woman in Wales. I knewed she would be one day, poor dear! and she the beauty that she was; and all along of that damned unlucky little craft. Goad help her! She’s drowned, I say——”