He left his horse in the care of the lad, and went to consult a little group of idle fishermen congregated before one of the cottages. From these men he received the most dismal confirmation of his fears. The walk from Halko’s Head to Killalochie could not be done between the turning of the tide and its full. Between the two places there was no way of getting from the sands to the cliffs, or only points so perilous and difficult of ascent, as to be impossible to any but the hardiest samphire-gatherer, or boldest hunter of eaglets, bred on those rough coasts. What was just possible for a Highland fisherman, would be, of course, impossible to a literary Londoner. “Do you tell me that the distance cannot be walked in the time?” asked Mr. Jerningham, desperately. The answer was decisive. Captain Barclay himself could not have walked from Halko’s Head to Killalochie within the given period. The hardiest of these villagers were careful, at this time of year, to start an hour before the turn of the tide. The more cautious among these good folks left Halko’s Head as soon as the ebbing waves left a dry path upon the sand. “Then he is doomed!” Mr. Jerningham said to himself. “But what is his doom to me? I am not his keeper.” He did his uttermost, however, towards the rescue of the unwary pedestrian from the peril he had tempted. To the fishermen he offered a noble reward should they succeed in saving the imprudent stranger. The men ran to their boats, and in five minutes had pushed off, and were making all the way they could against a heavy sea. But those who stayed behind told Mr. Jerningham that the chances were against the boats overtaking the pedestrian, if he were anything of a walker. They told him there was a stiff wind blowing from the land, and it was as much as the rowers could do to make any way against it. This, indeed, he could see for himself, and those dark clouds in the windward quarter boded ill. Mr. Jerningham lingered for some time, talking with the two men who had stayed on shore. He questioned them closely as to the measures to be taken for the rescue of the stranger; and they assured him that in sending the boats he had done all that mortal aid could do. With this assurance he was obliged to be satisfied. What could it matter to him whether Eustace Thorburn lived or died; or would not the young man’s untimely end be for his advantage? He had seen, the day before, only too plainly, that all his patient devotion, his watchful anxiety to please her, had not made him as dear to Helen de Bergerac as this hired secretary had become without an effort. And all the old envy, and the old anger had returned to Harold Jerningham’s breast as he made this discovery.