Suddenly the great outside door of the court, which had been closed to break the force of the wind, gave way with a bang; then came the muffled cry of a man in distress, and Gaston burst in, clad in oilskins, his south-wester tied under his chin, rivers of rain pouring from his hat and overalls. Mignon gave a half-smothered sob of relief and would have sunk to the floor at his feet had not Leà caught her. The young fisherman staggered back against the edge of the fire-jamb, his hand on his chest. "It's madame la marquise!" he gasped. He had run the two miles from Buezval and had barely breath enough to reach the Inn. "I came for Monsieur Lemois! There isn't a moment to lose--the sea is now up to the porch. She is lost if you wait!" "Madame lost!" we cried in unison. "No," he panted, "the house. She is not there. Find Monsieur Lemois!--all of you must come!" Le Blanc was out of his chair before Gaston had completed his sentence. "Get your coats and meet me at the garage!" he shouted. "I'll run the motor out; we'll be there in ten minutes! My coat too, Leà!" and he slammed the door behind him. The old woman clattered upstairs into the several rooms for our ulsters and water-proofs, but Mignon sat still, too overjoyed to move or speak. Gaston, she knew, was going out into the rain again, but he was safe on the land now and not on a fishing craft, fighting his way into the harbor, as she had feared all day. The young fellow looked at her from under the brim of his dripping south-wester, but there was no word of recognition, though he had come as much to tell her he was safe as to summon us to madame's villa. I caught her lifted eyes and the furtive glance of gratitude she gave him. It was a wild dash up the coast; Le Blanc driving, Herbert handling the siren, the others packed in, crouching close, Gaston holding to the foot-board, where he roared in our ears the details of the impending calamity, his breath having now come back to him. The cliff, he explained, that supported the tennis court of an adjoining villa had given way, taking with it a slice of madame's lawn, leaving only the gravel walk under her library windows. The surf, goaded by the thrash of the wind, was, when he left, cutting great gashes in the toe of the newly exposed slope. Another hour's work like the last--and it was not high water until four o'clock--would send the cottage heels over head into the sea. Madame was in Paris, and the caretakers--an old fisherman and his wife--too old to work--were panic-stricken, calling piteously for Monsieur Lemois, whom their mistress trusted most of all the people in and about the village.