"I am not afraid," she broke in. "However mad Uncle Philip is, he would never hurt me. Oh, my dear, I would stay if I could, I would stay with you so gladly, but when I think of all he has suffered, how can I leave him now just when he needs me most?" "You think of everyone except yourself," I cried hotly. "I wish to God I'd killed Manning on the barge. To feel that you may be alone in the house with that devil----" She placed her hand softly on my shoulder. "I shall be quite safe," she said. "Most likely Uncle Philip will come back this evening, and in any case there is always Marie. She is kind to me in her way. If I couldn't leave the house I am sure she would take a note for me to Jimmy, so you see there's really no need for you to be anxious or worried on my account. It's you who are in such dreadful danger." "What, with Bascomb here and Bobby Dean turning up in the morning?" I exclaimed. "Why, if I can't take care of my own skin with the help of a prize-fighter and a V.C.--" I stopped short, as a sudden difficulty occurred to me. "How about Bobby?" I added. "So far I haven't even mentioned your name to him. He is under the impression that the whole affair is a little private speculation of Dr. Manning's." "You will have to tell him the truth," she said "It's too late to keep anything back." She glanced up at the clock above the fireplace; then, bending forward, she took my face between her hands, and looked long and tenderly into my eyes. "I must go, dear," she whispered; "you must take me back to Pen Mill and put me ashore. I daren't stay any longer, in case my uncle comes back unexpectedly." Every instinct I possessed rose up in revolt, but, all the same, I saw that any further protest would be useless. For a moment I knelt there, holding her in my arms, and studying every curve of her beautiful face. Then, hungry with love, I crushed her still closer to my heart, and once again our lips met in a long, passionate kiss. CHAPTER FOURTEEN It was in a far from enviable state of mind that I pulled back alone across the estuary after parting with Christine at Pen Mill. By her own wish I had landed her at the extreme point of the jetty, where, with a whispered farewell, she had climbed ashore and disappeared silently into the mist, leaving me the prey of all sorts of conflicting emotions. My chief feeling was one of anger with myself for not having prevented her from carrying out her reckless determination. How I could have done so it was difficult to see, but if there was any comfort to be drawn from that fact I certainly failed to discover it. Once more she was beyond the reach of my help, and, in spite of all her efforts to make light of the danger, I knew that the horrible misgivings which assailed my heart were only too well grounded.