Daniel was only too glad to accept the offer, and in ten minutes the gig--a lumbering, obsolete vehicle of the hooded species, on two gigantic wheels--was ready for departure. The driver clambered into his seat, Daniel followed, and the big, bony horse, and clumsy carriage went splashing and plunging through the night. Mr. Jerningham stood at the inn-door, watching its departure. Then, for the first time since his arrival at the humble hostelry, he thought of the dinner that had been prepared for him, and the friends with whom he was to have eaten it. He went up to the sitting-room, where he found Helen alone, waiting the return of her father, who had gone down to the harbour. She sat in a meditative attitude, anxious and dispirited. Some hint of the ghastly truth had reached this room, in spite of Mr. Jerningham’s precautions, and Theodore de Bergerac had gone out to ascertain the extent of the calamity. “Oh, I am so glad you have come!” cried Helen, eagerly, as he entered the room. “You can tell us the truth about this dreadful rumour. The people here say that there has been some one--a stranger--lost on the sands to-night. Is it true?” “My dear Helen, I----” Mr. Jerningham began, but the girl stopped him, with a faint shriek of horror. “Yes, it is true,” she cried; “your face tells me that. It is deadly white. Is there no hope? Is the traveller really lost?” “It would be too soon to suppose that,” answered Mr. Jerningham, with calmness that cost him no small effort. “The whole business may be only a false alarm. The young man may have chosen another path. After all, no one _saw_ him go down to the sands. There is no cause for despair.” M. de Bergerac came into the room at this moment. He, too, was ghastly pale. “This is dreadful, Jerningham,” he said. “There is every reason to fear this poor young fellow has been drowned. I have been talking to the men on the jetty--men who know every foot of the coast--and they tell me, if he went by the sands, there is no hope. Poor fellow!” “Papa, in what a tone you speak of him!” cried Helen. “It is natural you should be sorry for a stranger, but you speak as if you had known this young man--and there are so few travellers in this part of Scotland. Oh, for pity’s sake, tell me!” she exclaimed, looking piteously from one to the other, with clasped hands. “Did you know him? did we know him? Your secretary was in this neighbourhood yesterday, papa, and was to meet his uncle here at Killalochie. Oh, no, no, no! it cannot be him. It cannot be Eustace Thorburn!” “Dear child, for God’s sake restrain yourself. There is no certainty--there is always hope until the worst is known.” “It _is_ Eustace Thorburn,” cried Helen. “Neither of you will deny that.” A stifled shriek broke from her lips, and she fell senseless, stretched at the feet of her father and Harold Jerningham.