Then Geoffrey broke down—it was too much. He threw himself upon the great rock and sobbed—that rock where he had sat with her and Heaven had opened to their sight. But men are not given to such exhibitions of emotion, and fortunately for him the paroxysm did not last. He could not have borne it for long. He rose and went again to the edge of the sea. At this moment old Edward and his son arrived. Geoffrey pointed to the boat, then held up the little shoe. “Ah,” said the old man, “as I thought. Goad help her! She’s gone; she’ll never come ashore no more, she won’t. She’s twenty miles away by now, she is, breast up, with the gulls a-screaming over her. It’s that there damned canoe, that’s what it is. I wish to Goad I had broke it up long ago. I’d rather have built her a boat for nothing, I would. Damn the unlucky craft!” screamed the old man at the top of his voice, and turning his head to hide the tears that were streaming down his rugged face. “And her that I nursed and pulled out of the waters once all but dead. Damn it, I say! There, take that, you Sea Witch, you!” and he picked up a great boulder and crashed it through the bottom of the canoe with all his strength. “You shan’t never drown no more. But it has brought you good luck, it has, sir; you’ll be a fortunit man all your life now. It has brought you the _Drowned One’s shoe_.” “Don’t break it any more,” said Geoffrey. “She used to value it. You had better bring it along between you—it may be wanted. I am going to the Vicarage.” He walked back. Mr. Granger and Elizabeth had not yet arrived, but they were expected every minute. He went into the sitting-room. It was full of memories and tokens of Beatrice. There lay a novel which he had given her, and there was yesterday’s paper that she had brought from town, the _Standard_, with his speech in it. Geoffrey covered his eyes with his hand, and thought. None knew that she had committed suicide except himself. If he revealed it things might be said of her; he did not care what was said of him, but he was jealous of her dead name. It might be said, for instance, that the whole tale was true, and that Beatrice died because she could no longer face life without being put to an open shame. Yes, he had better hold his tongue as to how and why she died. She was dead—nothing could bring her back. But how then should he account for his presence there? Easily enough. He would say frankly that he came because Beatrice had written to him of the charges made against her and the threats against himself—came to find her dead. And on that point he would still have a word with Owen Davies and Elizabeth. Scarcely had he made up his mind when Elizabeth and her father entered. Clearly from their faces they had as yet heard nothing. Geoffrey rose, and Elizabeth caught sight of him standing with glowing eyes and a face like that of Death himself. She recoiled in alarm. “What brings you here, Mr. Bingham?” she said, in her hard voice.