In the midst of her compassion and pity for this young man, a feeling of resentment at his words arose in Mary's heart. There might be truth in the tale he told in regard to the smuggling--nay, the manoeuvres of the boats that night and the unsuspected door she had seen open to the narrow beach, seemed to confirm it: but that this nefarious work was countenanced by, or even known to, the Master of Greylands, she rejected utterly. If there was, in her belief, one man more honourable than any other on the face of the earth, more proudly conscious of his own rectitude, it was her Uncle James. Pride had always been his failing. Walter Dance must be either partially wandering in mind to say it; or else must have taken up a fallacious fancy: perhaps been imposed upon by his father from some private motive. The work must be Teague's, and his only. "Walter, you are not in a condition to be contradicted," she said gently, "but I know you are mistaken as to Mr. Castlemaine. He could not hold any cognisance of such an affair of cheating as this--or his son either." "Why, the business is theirs, ma'am; their very own: father don't feel a doubt of it. The Commodore only manages it for 'em." "You may have been led to suppose that: but it is not, cannot be true. My Uncle James is the soul of honour. Can you suppose it likely that a gentleman like Mr. Castlemaine would lend himself to a long continued system of fraud?" "I've always thought 'twas his," groaned Walter. "I've seen him there standing to look on." "You must have been mistaken. Did you see him there to-night?" "No, ma'am." "Nor any other night, my poor lad, as I will venture to answer for." "He might have been there to-night, though, without my seeing him," returned the young man, who seemed scarcely conscious of her words. "How should you have left the vaults, but for this accident?" she asked, the question striking her. "I had locked the door on the sea, and was going straight up the passage to the Hutt," he groaned, the pain in his side getting intolerable. "One question, Walter, and then I will not trouble you with more," she breathed, and her voice took a trembling sound as she spoke. "Carry your thoughts back to that night, last February, when young Mr. Anthony was said to disappear within the Friar's Keep----" "I know," he interrupted. "Was any cargo run that night?" "I can't tell," he answered, lifting his eyes for a moment to hers. "I was ill abed with a touch of the ague; I get it sometimes. I don't think father was abroad that night, either." "Have you ever known, ever heard any hint, or rumour, from your father or the Commodore or the sailors who run these cargoes, that could throw light on Mr. Anthony's fate?" "Never. Never a word." "Who are the sailors that come?"