She will conduct the search in this direction herself, while, as is now arranged, Estcourt and Archie Douglasdale will prosecute it along Shona’s rocky coast in the large gig. Archie had returned to Glenuig Bay, on the evening before, only to find the fishing box deserted, his sister, Ravensdale, and Estcourt gone. One of his trusty Ruglen retainers awaited him, however, with the information that they had crossed the hills by Kinlockmoidart for Eilean Shona, where the duke’s yacht lay anchored. The message which Léonie had been entrusted to convey was to this very effect, the duke having further commissioned her to apprise Gloria of his intended arrival alone, from the Loch Eilort side. “Evie,” says Flora gently, “you will come with me, will you not? I am going to search the sand beaches in the cutter up to Ru Druimnich. Come, Evie.” He turns almost sullenly. God help him! The torture he is suffering is writ in his eyes. “She is dead,” is all he says. But he follows Flora, nevertheless, and they enter the cutter together. Then he bows his face in his hands and remains silent. The search they make is thorough. How could it be else with Flora in command? And gradually the cutter creeps slowly on in the direction of the body on the shore. It is sighted at length; the look-out man utters his warning cry, and Flora stands suddenly up and stares eagerly ahead. Yes, there it lies, high and dry on the sandy beach. Undoubtedly a human form. “Bend to your oars, lads!” she cries. “I’m going to beach her;” and with that she brings the boat’s nose sharply for the shore. “Evie,” she says again, “rouse yourself, Evie. We shall be in the breakers in a minute. There is a body on the beach.” He looks up quickly. Just a gleam of hope is in his wild eyes, and he is thoroughly on the alert. The boat rushes forward; it rises high on the first breaker, and is hurled towards the shore. True is the hand that holds the tiller and the nerve that guides it. Straight as a dart does Flora keep the cutter’s nose, and her voice encourages the oarsmen to their duty, the seething foam half fills the boat, but it gallantly rides the water still, as another breaker bears it onward. Now the keel grates the sandy bottom. “Ship oars, lads, and out of her!” Flora commands, but she sets the example, too. She is in the water waist high. In a moment the stalwart sailors have obeyed her. Rough, willing hands grasp the cutter’s sides, and with combined force to the seaman’s cheery “Pull, boys, together,” run her high and dry on to the beach. But Evie Ravensdale has rushed forward. Hope still surges in his heart. The body is stretched out upon the sand, the figure is lying on its face, the hands are clenched. It is easy, however, to see that the body is not that of a woman; it is plain as plain can be that it is a man.