“Now lower a boat,” said the earl. “We will go ashore.” The boat was lowered; the two McDonalds and the four passengers entered it, and the boat was rowed toward the yacht, keeping close to the black shore. As they drew near, a row-boat was seen to shoot away from the yacht. The McDonalds held their oars uplifted until the yacht’s boat had grounded on the shore, and the three seamen belonging to the yacht had landed. Two of the three employes of Craven Black loaded themselves with hampers and parcels, and the third preceded them up the steep and circuitous path in the mountain side, bearing a lantern which he swung at his side. “They are all gone up the cliff,” said the earl. “No one is left to watch the shore. Strike out, men. Let us land and follow them up the mountain. The man with the lantern shall guide us as well as his comrades.” To say was to do. The sloop’s boat speedily grounded on the strip of beach, and Lord Towyn leaped out and sought for the entrance to the narrow path up which the three figures were slowly climbing, one still waving his light. The path was found. The earl bade the boatmen wait, and the four men, Lord Towyn, Sir Harold Wynde, Mr. Atkins and Ryan, glided up the path toward the Wilderness like so many shadows. CHAPTER XXIII. THE END OF THE GAME. The yacht had arrived at the loch at the foot of Wilderness mountain just as the dusk was falling. Craven Black had immediately gone ashore in the mist and gloom, climbed the rugged steep, and hastened to his temporary home. The windows were all uncurtained, and a broad stream of watery light penetrated for a little distance into the darkness. There was no sound of barking of dogs, and the silence struck upon Craven Black’s ears strangely. The front door stood wide open, but no one was in the hall. He entered the house and looked into the drawing-room. Mrs. Artress was there, pale and perturbed, a restless spark in her ashen eyes, and disorder in her attire. She uttered an exclamation as she beheld Mr. Black, and sprang toward him, exclaiming: “I am so glad you are come, Craven. Have you got the medicines for Octavia?” “Yes. How is she?” “I don’t know. I am very anxious about her. She looks like death, and her breathing is very strange. She won’t lie down, but just wanders about the house like some restless ghost. I think that her lungs are congested, and that she is in serious danger. I really think you ought to take her to Inverness and put her in a physician’s care. What if she should die in this remote Wilderness?” “She won’t die while she is able to ‘wander about the house,’” responded Craven Black lightly. “When people are seriously ill they take to their beds. Why are the dogs shut up?” “Octavia ordered it. She could not bear their noise; it drove her wild, she said.” “Humph. Nervous. She will be better of her cold in a day or two. How is Miss Wynde?”