"We will question the man himself," said Carwell, rising heavily from his seat. "My poor Rachel! This is terrible for her. I'll see this man and wring the truth from him. I've a mind to go to him now." "There's no need for that, uncle," interposed the sailor; "he told Rachel he was coming here to-night after supper. He'll probably be here in an hour or so. Let's wait for him. There may as well be as many witnesses as possible to the skunk's confessions. You come along, uncle, and have some supper; it's ready, and you'll be the better for it." "I could not eat a mouthful," muttered Carwell, resuming his seat. "Go you and eat. Jack--you and Bithiah, with that heathen of yours. I'll go and see Rachel." "No, please don't," said Tera, anxiously. "She is sleeping beautifully now. You will only make her ill again if you wake her." "Poor lass! poor lass!" murmured the farmer. Then he relapsed into a state of silence, indifferent utterly to what was going on around him. Beckoned to by Tera, the Kanaka, still greatly troubled by this mystery and trouble, crept out of his corner. He seated himself timidly at the table with the other two, and managed to make a good meal, even though the viands placed before him were probably weird and strange to him. Nobody spoke save in an occasional whisper, and the time dragged wearily on. Jack sought solace in his pipe, and Tolai crawled back to his corner. Tera went upstairs to Rachel's room, to see if she were still asleep. She slept soundly. Tera did not disturb her, but she returned to the sitting-room. As she came down the stairs she heard a cheery whistle from outside; then the tread of rapidly approaching footsteps, and finally a sharp rat-tat at the door. Tera went to open it, and with a smile on his face, Herbert stepped into the room. The lamplight seemed to dazzle him. "Here I am," he said, tossing down his cap. "I'm earlier than usual, but I couldn't keep away any longer." He did not appear to notice anything was wrong. He approached Farmer Carwell. "Has Rachel not told you, farmer, our news? Where is she?" Carwell said nothing, but stretching out a huge paw, gripped the man by the shoulder, and drew him towards the table into the bright glare of the lamp. He placed the certificate on the cloth before Mayne's eyes, and silently pointed to it. Mayne started, and gasped. Something seemed to catch in his throat, and he became inarticulate. "You scoundrel!" said Carwell, between his teeth. "Do you know that paper? Yet you dare to make love to my child, you--you--you murderer!" "I--I--I am no--murderer," faltered Herbert, down whose pallid face the perspiration rolled in great drops. "I did not kill her." Carwell shook him fiercely. "Say your wife, you dog, you!" "I--did--not--kill--my--wife!"