The Lodge was set inland from the sea in a valley between two ridges which narrowed down to a fissure in the rocks that fell away to Beaufort Cove, a small harbor almost land-locked where Cyril kept his motor-boats and sloop. As the girl approached the Lodge, she turned far to the left and made a wide circle among the hills, so that there could be no chance of inquisitive eyes discovering the bold silhouette of her horse against the sky. Slowly she climbed the lower ridges of Ben-a-Chielt until she reached a level spot, high above the house, garage, stables and hangar, where she stopped for a moment to rest her winded horse. Below her a wild panorama of land and wind-blown sky, the ragged profile of black rocks etched deep into the sullen gray of the sea. Seen from this height the contours were unfamiliar to her and the purpose of her grim visit gave the grim vista a dramatic significance that was almost theatrical. Long lines emerged from the dark blur of sea and sky and roared in upon the rocks that guarded the harbor upon which they were shivered into foam. Inside the rim of rocks the placid cove calmly reflected the sky. She saw the motor-boats near the landing, made out the specter lines of Cyril’s sloop, the _Windbird_, and in the shadow of the cliffs saw another vessel, the lines of which were unfamiliar. This craft was long and slender with a wireless mast and two large smoke-stacks. No lights showed aboard of her, but there were signs of activity, for while the girl looked a small boat was lowered and was pulled for the landing; and suddenly the real meaning of this dark vessel was borne to her. There was no mistaking the grim profile of the thing that projected from the forward superstructure and the curving decks which met the water in such slender lines. It was a war-vessel, a destroyer, and the man who was putting out for the shore was the German messenger who was to meet Cyril Hammersley at Ben-a-Chielt. She trembled and clung to the pommel of her saddle. The brief joyous moments that had come to her at intervals during the evening as she thought of the inflections of Cyril’s voice, of the weary look she had seen in his eyes, and hoped that even tonight he might be able to justify himself in her own thoughts at least were engulfed in the damning conviction of what she saw before her. John Rizzio had told her the truth. How he had learned what was to happen, she did not know or care, but the accuracy of his information was no longer a matter to doubt.