"Very awkward run for the harbour to-night," he said, as he returned to his seat. "Can't be pleasant to be a ship-owner. I wonder whether Miss Marguerite Vine would consider that a more honourable way of making money?" "Yes, a tradesman, I suppose. Well, why not? Better than being a descendant of some feudal gentleman whose sole idea of right was might." "My word!" he exclaimed; "what a sudden gale to have sprung up. Heavy consumption of coal in the furnaces to-night. How this wind will make them roar." He faced round to the window and sat listening as the wind shrieked, and howled, and beat at the panes, every now and then sending the raindrops pattering almost as loudly as hail. "Hope it will not blow down my chimney on the top yonder. Hah! I ought to be glad that I have no ship to trouble me on a night like this." "No," he said firmly, just as the wind had hurled itself with redoubled fury against the house; "no, she does not give me a second thought. But I take heart of grace, for I can feel that she has never had that gentle little heart troubled by such thoughts. The Frenchman has not won her, and he never shall if I can help it. It's a fair race for both of us, and only one can win." "My word! What a night!" He walked to the window and looked out at the sombre sky, and listened to the roar of the rumbling billows before closing his casement and ringing. "Is all fastened?" he said to the servant. "You need not sit up.--I don't believe a dog would be out to-night, let alone a human being." He was wrong; for just as he spoke a dark figure encased in oilskins was sturdily making its way down the cliff-path to the town. It was hard work, and in places on the exposed cliff-side even dangerous, for the wind seemed to pounce upon the figure and try to tear it off; but after a few moments' pause the walk was continued, the town reached, and the wind-swept streets traversed without a soul being passed. The figure passed on by the wharves and warehouses, and sheltered now from the wind made good way till, some distance ahead, a door was opened, a broad patch of light shone out on the wet cobble stones, Crampton's voice said, "Good-night," and the figure drew back into a deep doorway, and waited. The old clerk had been to the principal inn, where, once a week, he visited his club, and drank one glass of Hollands and water, and smoked one pipe, talking mostly to one friend, to whom if urged he would relate one old story. This was his one dissipation; and afterwards he performed one regular duty which took him close up to the watching figure which remained there almost breathless till Crampton had performed his regular duty and gone home. It was ten minutes or a quarter of an hour before he passed that watching figure, which seemed to have sunk away in the darkness that grew more dense as the gale increased.