On the day in question the glass was being applied to a purpose rather reprehensible, perhaps, but with some excuse of helping Duncan Leslie's affair of the heart. From his window he could see the old granite-built house, and with interruptions, due to rocks and doublings and jutting pieces of cliff, a great deal of the winding and zig-zag path, half steps, which led down to the shore. As, then, was frequently the case, the glass was directed toward the residence of the Vines, and Duncan Leslie saw Louise and Madelaine go down to the sea, stand watching the receding tide, and then go off west. After gazing through the glass for a time he laid it down, with his heart beating faster than usual, as he debated within himself whether he should go down to the shore and follow them. It was a hard fight, and inclination was rapidly mastering etiquette, when two figures, hitherto concealed came into view from beneath the cliff and began to follow the ladies. Duncan Leslie's eyes flashed as he caught up the glass again, and after looking through it for a few minutes he closed it and threw it down. "I'm making a fool of myself," he said bitterly. "Better attend to my business and think about it no more." The desire was upon him to focus the glass again and watch what took place, but he turned away with an angry ejaculation and put the glass in its case. "I might have known better," he said, "and it would be like playing the spy." He strode out and went to his engine-house, forcing himself to take an interest in what was going on, and wishing the while that he had not used that glass in so reprehensible a way. Oddly enough, just at that moment Uncle Luke was seated outside the door of his little cottage in its niche of the cliff below the mine, and wishing for this very glass. His was a cottage of the roughest construction, which he had bought some years before of an old fisherman; and his seat--he could not afford chairs, he said--was a rough block of granite, upon which he was very fond of sunning himself when the weather was fine. "I've a good mind to go and ask Leslie to lend me his glass," muttered the old man. "No. He'd only begin asking favours of me. But all that ought to be stopped. Wonder whether George knows. What's Van Heldre about? As for those two girls, I'll give them such a talking to--the gipsies! There they go, pretending they can't see that they are followed, and those two scamps making after them, and won't close up till they're round the point. Bah! it's no business of mine! I'm not going to marry." Uncle Luke was quite right. Harry Vine and his friend were waiting till the jutting mass of cliff was passed--about a quarter of a mile to the westward, and they overtook the objects of their pursuit just as a consultation was taking place as to whether they should sit down and rest. "Yes, let's sit down," said Madelaine, turning round. "Oh!" "What is it? sprained your ankle?"