'But how--where is the connection? I don't understand this. Do you know Miss Marlowe?' said Danby, unable any longer to remain silent. 'I do,' said Ambrose. 'She was here the other day. She came to call upon us the day after she arrived in the Islands with her friends. She had told Anna she would, and my father was greatly pleased. She spoke then of wintering here. But it seems she is going home unexpectedly.' 'She is gone. I saw her to London and returned yesterday. But I hope to follow her soon and to see the Admiral. Still, Piton, I don't understand how you are all connected. Miss Hugo now, how does she know her intimately?' 'Oh, very intimately,' said Ambrose, feeling that he was on the sharp edge of a precipice. 'She seems to have made a friend of her. She barely named Mrs. Severn though; she----' 'And who is Mrs. Severn?' said Danby in a remarkably slow and dry voice as he faced him straight. Ambrose knew that he knew who Mrs. Severn was, but that he was also determined to have the clear-cut truth uttered. 'She's my half-cousin, Clothilde, you know. She married to Lafer, Old Lafer. Her husband is the Admiral's agent,' he said. Under his breath he added a strong expletive. He did not glance at Danby, but was fully conscious of the intense penetration with which his eyes were riveted on him. They sat in silence, and Danby continued to look at him. But now it was unconsciously. He was for the time morally paralysed. He simply could not turn his head for the tension on his brain. Every word had struck home with sledge-hammer force; but to realise at once all they involved was impossible. Ambrose again was apparently absorbed in the bay. He swung his legs and scanned the horizon for passing ships. A spy-glass lay beside him. He took it up and examined a schooner that was rounding Noirmont with all sails set and silver in the sunshine. Then he put it down, and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, broke into a low whistle. 'Upon my soul, if I were a woman I'd be weeping,' he thought. He longed to turn sharply, clap Danby on the back and say, 'Cheer up, old man! It's a flabbergasting coincidence, would make a cynic swear; but by Jove you've been reserved for good luck in the end.' However, he dare not. He knew intuitively that Danby looked an 'old man' at that moment, that his face was drawn and gray. Moreover, he never had been one with whom it was easy to jest. His actions had too clearly borne the stamp of earnestness; there had been an energy of life about him, expressed in few words but impressed on every circumstance in which Ambrose had seen him, that involuntarily expelled banter as profane. No! he had done his part. It was best to ignore his own perception of the dramatic. He sat on, blinking at the dazzle of the twinkling ripples. And at last Danby turned and looked at them too.