"Oh, it's all right. I'm only telling you what he said. He says too that the chap who did it--I say, don't kick out like that, Sis. Yes, I shall go on: I'm doing you good. Fisherman Dick, and Mrs Miggles too, said that I ought to try and rouse you up, and I'm doing it. You're ever so much better already. Why, your hands were like dabs when I came up, and now they are nice and warm." She caressed his cheek with them, and he kissed her as she laid her head on his shoulder. "Dick Miggles said that the diamonds would never do the chap any good who stole 'em." Once more that hysterical start, but the boy only clasped his sister more tightly, and went on: "Dick says he never knew anyone prosper who robbed or murdered, or did anything wrong, except those who smuggled. I say, Sis, I do feel sometimes as if I should go in for a bit of smuggling. There are some rare games going on." Claire clung to him as if exhausted by her emotion. "Dick's been in for lots of it, I know, only he's too close to speak. I don't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for them. I've taken the fish I've caught up there, and Polly Miggles has cooked them, and we've had regular feeds." "You have been up there, Morton?" said Claire wildly. "Yes; you needn't tell the old man. What was I to do? I couldn't get anything to eat here. I nursed the little girl for Mrs Miggles while she cooked, and Dick has laughed at me to see me nurse the little thing, and said it was rum. But I don't mind; she's a pretty little tit, and Dick has taught her to call me uncle." Volume One, Chapter VIII. THE FIRST MEETING. It was the next morning that the Master of the Ceremonies made his effort, and went down to the breakfast-room, where he sat by the table, playing with the newspaper that he dared not try to read, and waiting, wondering, in a dazed way, whether his son or his daughter would come in to breakfast. The paper fell from his hands, and as he sat there he caught at the table, drawing the cloth aside and holding it with a spasmodic clutch, as one who was in danger of falling. For there was the creak of a stair, the faint rustle of a dress, and he knew that the time had come. He tried to rise to his feet, but his limbs refused their office, and the palsied trembling that had attacked him rose to his hands. Then he loosened his hold of the table, and sank back in his chair, clinging to the arms, and with his chin falling upon his breast. At that moment the door opened, and Claire glided into the room. She took a couple of steps forward, after closing the door, and then caught at the back of a chair to support herself. The agony and horror in his child's face, as their eyes met, galvanised Denville into life, and, starting up, he took a step forward, extending his trembling hands. "Claire--my child!" he cried, in a husky voice.