He is bent on losing himself and his tormenting thoughts in the deepest oblivion he can find, but in less than a week he succumbs to fatigue and mental agony, and decides that he is "fagged out." Either he must recuperate or he must die. Life is sweet to us all; even to Vane, with his dearest hope gone from him. He decides to run down to the sea-shore a little way, and brace his constitution with the life-giving sea-breezes. He hears of a quiet place, frequented by invalids, authors, and poets, and such quiet people, "packs his traps" and goes down by the first train. Behold, it is a coast such as Tennyson portrays: "All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave." "I shall die of memory and stagnation here in less than a week," he tells himself grimly, as he paces along the yellow sands up to his balconied hotel, where a few dispirited invalids and long-haired poets eye the handsome young American with a dreamy, listless curiosity. "I shall find health and quiet here with a vengeance. I shall go mad with this eternal sea!" And after one night with the long, low moan of the "sad sea waves" in his ears, and the ghosts of the past stalking drearily in the haunted darkness, he stoutly prepares to "fold up his tent like the Arabs, and silently steal away" to "fresh fields and pastures new." The spirit of unrest is upon him; strange mood for one who all his life-long had been indolent, languid, not to say, in Reine's plain English, _lazy_. But while he chews the end of his morning segar, and restlessly meditates on the where to go next, a boy comes to him with a pretty little three-cornered note. In stupid astonishment he takes it and holds it unopened in his hand. "I was to take back an answer, sir," the lad ventures, as a gentle reminder. Then Vane turns it over and looks at the superscription. It is addressed to himself in a pretty, graceful hand, with a good deal of character in it. Unfolding it, he reads, with staring eyes: "MR. CHARTERIS:--Arriving at the hotel an hour ago, I learned, on inquiry, that you were at the 'Haven of Rest.' Will you come to me for ten minutes? Hastily, "REINE LANGTON." The earth seems to yawn beneath Mr. Charteris' feet. He mutters, on the uncontrollable spur of the moment, a profane expletive: "_The_ devil!" "Eh, what, sir?" the lad mutters, uncomprehendingly. The words recall Mr. Charteris to his senses, he having been momentarily shocked out of them. "Who gave you this note, boy!" he demands, sternly. Really, it seems to him there must be some mistake. Reine, his unloved wife, here on Albion's wave-washed shore--impossible. But the lad replies, distinctly: "A young lady at the Sea View Hotel, a very pretty lady, with big black eyes." This description is too suggestive of Reine to admit of further doubt. With a suppressed groan, Vane tears a leaf from his memorandum book, and scribbles, hastily: