"It's a man named Watson," said the judge, decidedly. Watson was a generic title, it did for any one whom the judge could not quite see. He considered that a name stopped unnecessary chatter,--made an end of it; if you once knew that it was Watson or Dunlap, you let it alone. In reality the figure was that of Paul Tennant. After reading Eve's note he crushed the sheet in his hand, and turned towards the house with rapid stride. There was no one in the hall; he rang the parlor bell. "Do you know where Miss Bruce is?" he asked, when Powlyne appeared. "In her room, marse, I spex." "Go and see. Don't knock; listen." He paced to and fro until Powlyne came back. "Ain't dere, marse. Nor yet, periently, she ain't in de house anywhuz; spex she's gone fer a walk." "Go and find out if any one knows which way she went." But no one had seen Eve. "Where is Mrs. Morrison?" "_She's_ yere, safe enough. I know whur _she_ is," answered Powlyne. "Mis' Morrison she's down at de barf-house, taken a barf." "Is any one with her?" "Dilsey; she's dere." "Go and ask Dilsey how soon Mrs. Morrison can see me." Powlyne started. As she did not come back immediately, he grew impatient, and went himself to the bath-house. It was a queer little place, a small wooden building, near the sound. It seemed an odd idea to bathe there, in a tank filled by a pump, when, twenty feet distant, stretched the lagoon, and on the other side of the island the magnificent sea-beach, smooth as a floor. Paul knocked. "How soon can Mrs. Morrison see me?" "She's troo her barf," answered Dilsey's voice at the crack. "Now she's dess a-lounjun." "Tell her who it is;--that it's important." In another moment Dilsey opened the door, and ushered him into the outer room. It was a square apartment, bare and rough, lighted only from above; its sole article of furniture was a divan in the centre; an inner door led to the bath-room beyond. Upon the divan Cicely was lying, her head propped by cushions, the soft waves of her hair loose on her shoulders. Delicate white draperies, profusely trimmed with lace, enveloped her, exhaling an odor of violets. "Cicely, where is Eve?" demanded Paul. "Wait outside, Dilsey," said Cicely. Then, when the girl had disappeared, "She has gone to Charleston," she answered. "And from there?" "I don't know." "When did she start!" "Two hours ago." --"Immediately after leaving me," Paul reflected, audibly. "Yes." "But there's no steamer at this hour." "One of the field hands rowed her up to Mayport; there she was to take a wagon, and drive inland to a railway station." "She could only hit the Western Road." "Yes; but she can make a connection, farther on, which will enable her to reach Charleston by to-morrow night." "I shall be twelve hours behind her, then; the first steamer leaves this evening. You are a traitor, Cicely! Why didn't you let me know?" "She did not wish it." "I know what she wishes."