Five minutes afterwards he was knocking at Ballure House. His breath was coming in gusts, perspiration was standing in beads on his face, and his head was still bare, but he was carrying himself bravely as if nothing were amiss. His knock was answered by the maid, a tall girl of cheerful expression, in a black frock, a white apron, and a snow-white cap. Pete nodded and smiled at her. “Anybody been here for me? No?” he asked. “No, sir, n--o, I think not,” the girl answered, and as she looked at Pete her face straightened. There was a rustling within as of autumn leaves, and then a twittering voice cried, “Is it Capt'n Quilliam, Martha?” “Yes, ma'am.” Some whispered conference took place at the dining-room door, and Auntie Nan came hopping through the hall. But Pete was already moving away in the darkness. “Shall I call the Deemster, Peter?” “Aw, no, ma'am, no, not worth bothering him. Good everin', Miss Christian, ma'am, good everin' to you.” Auntie Nan and Martha were standing in the light at the open door when the iron gate of the garden swung to with a click, and Pete swung across the road. He was making for the lane which goes down to the shore at the foot of Ballure Glen. “No denying it,” he thought. “It must be true for all. The trouble in her head has driven her to it. Poor girl, poor darling!” He had been fighting against an awful idea, and the quagmire of despair had risen to his throat at last. The moon was behind the cliffs, and he groped his way through the shadows at the foot of the rocks like one who looks for something which he dreads to find. He found nothing, and his catchy breathing lengthened to sighs. “Thank God, not here, anyway!” he muttered. Then he walked down the shore towards the harbour. The tide was still high, the wash of the waves touched his feet; on the one hand the dark sea, unbroken by a light, on the other the dull town blinking out and dropping asleep. He reached the end of the stone pier at the mouth of the harbour, and with his back to the seaward side of the lighthouse he stared down into the grey water that surged and moaned under the rounded wall. A black cloud like a skate was floating across the moon, and a startled gannet scuttled from under the pier steps into the moon's misty waterway. There was nothing else to be seen. He turned back towards the town, following the line of the quay, and glancing down into the harbour when he came to the steps. Still he saw nothing of the thing he looked for. “But it was high water then, and now it's the ebby tide,” he told himself. He had met with nobody on the shore or on the pier, but as he passed the sheds in front of the berth for the steamers he was joined by the harbour-master, who was swinging home for the night, with his coat across his arm. Then he tried to ask the question that was slipping off his tongue, but dared not, and only stammered awkwardly---- “Any news to-night, Mr. Quay le?”