As if guided by instinct more than her own will, she turned at last from the rail and took a few steps in the darkness towards the side where the damp salt-soaked flight of steps led to the platform below--the rough landing-stage beneath where she had been standing. Here, as she stood close to the edge with the black piles looming up around, she fancied they were the whisperers as the water heaved and plashed, and rippled and fell. There was no rail here between her and the rest that seemed to ask her to sink down into its arms, now that she was so weary, and unconsciously she was standing where her brother had stood and listened many months ago at the footsteps overhead, as he enjoyed his stolen pleasure in the middle of the night. But there was no heavy step now--no voice to break the curious spell that was upon her, drawing her away from life, and bidding her sleep. She was not afraid; she was not excited. Everything seemed to her dull and dreamy and restful, as she stood on the very verge of the open platform, with the water now only a few inches from her feet, leaning more and more over, till the slightest further movement would have overbalanced her, and she would have fallen in, to sink without a cry. She hardly started as a firm hand gripped her arm, and she was drawn sharply back, to be held tightly by him who had followed her below, watching her every action and standing close behind her in the darkness with outstretched hands. "Miss Denville--Claire--for heaven's sake, what does this mean?" She did not struggle, but turned round slowly, and looked in the dimly seen face. "Richard Linnell!" she said, as if wondering at his presence. "Yes, Richard Linnell," he cried, panting with emotion. "Claire, my love, has it come to this?" She did not shrink from him as he drew her closely to his side, and his arm clasped her waist, but gazed up at him in the same half-wondering way. "Why are you here?" he said hoarsely. "Surely you were not thinking-- oh, it is impossible." Still she did not answer, but in a slow, dull way extricated herself from his grasp, and pressed her hands over her face, covering her eyes for a few moments till she felt his touch as he laid his hand upon her arm. "Claire," he whispered, "you do not speak to me. Why do you not say something to drive away these horrible thoughts. You here--at this hour--alone? Is it my fate to be always misunderstanding you?" She shuddered slightly, as if his words were reviving memories of other meetings, and now she spoke. "I don't know why I am here," she said in a dazed, helpless way. "I have had so much trouble. I was tired!" "Trouble!" he whispered. "Claire dearest, if you only knew how I loved you. Let me share the trouble--help you through everything." "Hush! Don't speak to me like that, Richard Linnell," she said slowly, as if she had to think deeply before she uttered a word. "I cannot talk to you now. My head!"