They had come to that picturesque bridge of stone spanning the valley below the Downs and already the air was sharp and sweet with the first breath of the sea beyond. Over the smooth curve of the hills a crescent moon was shining clear. The hushed Earth lay beneath, bathed in the silvery light ... And, suddenly, a memory stirred in the young man's heart, filled with tender dreams of the girl he loved--the echo of long forgotten words. "It's under the heavy cloud you stand ... the cloud of a lie ... but it clears ... it clears..." McTaggart started at the thought. Why--by Heaven! she had been right. His "double heart?" It _was_ a lie. He tried to recall the gypsy's speech, the end of the curious prophecy. What was it she had said of the Moon? and the Tide...? He stared out into the night and slowly it returned to him, with the jingle of bangles, the noise of the Fair. "Between two fires you will burn and burn--And then ... the light fades ... on the turn of the Tide ... there's the Lucky Moon and the Dream of your life...!" The dream of his life?--Why, that meant Jill! * * * * * At Worthing he found a single cab, with a driver, elderly, garrulous. He sat sideways on the box in order to point out local features of interest; the reins loose in his hands, throwing remarks back to McTaggart. "Town 'All!" he waved his whip, a worn-out stump without a lash, toward that imposing structure. "The Picture Palace!--'Old up, me lass!" The ancient mare between the shafts responded coquettishly to the call, aware of the subtle compliment, tossing her venerable head. "The Pier, sir--as was washed in 'alf in the big gale--a crool business. Cost the Corporation no end--This 'ere's the Promenade..." McTaggart woke from his dream of Jill to gaze at the wide stretch of water. The beach, white under the moon, shelved down to the smooth sand, dove-grey and broken by rocks low and black, where silver pools lay fringed with sea weed and emerald samphire. It crept out, like an endless scroll, till it touched the dark line of sea and was met by a single crested wave that broke upon it, noiselessly. "The tide is very low to-night?" McTaggart spoke at last to the driver. "Yessir----" the man followed his gaze. "It 'ud be now just on the turn. Woodford Road, I think you said?" "Yes. There's no number--it's called 'Rose Mount'!" "Right, sir--I know the 'ouse." They turned abruptly from the sea, up a narrow road in the old town, passed a Terrace and came to a gate, open, that showed a curving alley between hedges, neatly clipped, of Euonymus, thick with dust. The cab drew up and the man descended. "An orkard place," he said, "with luggage. There's two cottages up there--'Sea-view' and 'Rose Mount.' The one you want is the last, on the right. Shall I carry yer bag, sir? The 'orse won't move."