The body was lying among a heap of jagged rocks, half in and half out of the water. Lionel’s first idea was that the man was stone dead. But a more careful examination, which he made as soon as he had dragged the body beyond reach of the still-rising tide, convinced him that there were still some flickering signs of life—just the faintest possible pulsation of the heart. The forehead was marked by a thin streak of blood, which Lionel tried to stanch with his handkerchief. For the rest, he made out, by the momentary glimpses which the lightning afforded him, that the man was young, fair, slightly built, and, to all appearance, a gentleman. Feeling some hard substance, Lionel put his hand into the stranger’s pocket, and drew from it a small travelling flask. It contained a little brandy, with which Lionel moistened the unconscious lips, but the stranger’s teeth were so firmly set that he found it impossible to open them. What more could he do? he asked himself, and he was obliged to answer, Nothing. If Bunce had not deserted him, help would be forthcoming before long. Otherwise, he must wait there for daybreak and the ebbing of the tide. But faithful, good-hearted Bunce had not deserted him. He had roused up Jasper, the lighthouse-keeper, out of his first snooze—Jasper’s two mates being on duty—and had brought that individual, still half dazed, but responding manfully to the call, together with a quantity of stout rope, and a couple of ship’s lanterns, not forgetting a blanket and a nip of cognac, and was back again on the cliffs only a few minutes after Lionel’s search was at an end. Never had human voice sounded so welcome to Lionel as did the coastguardsman’s hoarse shouts that August night. They soon made each other out, and then the rest was comparatively easy. A rope was slung round the body of the still unconscious stranger, which was then hauled up by the two men with all possible care to the top of the cliff; a process which was repeated in the case of Lionel. “I never thought to see you alive again, Mr. Dering,” said Bunce, with tears in his eyes, as Lionel grasped him warmly by the hand. “Where do you wish to have the gentleman taken to?” “To Gatehouse Farm, of course,” said Lionel. “Jasper, you run into the village, and borrow a horse and cart, and some straw, and another blanket or two, and get back again as if your life depended on it.” And so about midnight the stranger, who had never recovered consciousness, was laid in Mr. Dering’s own bed at Gatehouse Farm. They had found a card-case in his pocket, the cards in which were inscribed with the name of “Mr. Tom Bristow,” but that was the only clue to his identity. Dr. Bell, the local practitioner, was quickly on the spot.