"Take your hand away," he said; "you will never understand our English ways, Pauline; the people here cannot make out what you are about. I am all right, depend upon it. I could swim four times the distance in much rougher weather; and even if there were any danger, the prize is much too great to chance the loss of it for a little risk. Don't be afraid, Pauline," he added, with a little softening of his voice, "but clear that quick, clever brain of yours and attend to me. Here is the bundle of bank-notes, and here is a letter which is almost as important; place them both securely in the bosom of your dress, and don't take them out for one instant until you hand them over to me to-morrow morning at Lymington station--you understand?" "Perfectly," said the woman, taking the packets from him. "What time will you be there?" "By half-past seven, when the first train passes. We can loaf away the day on the beach at Weymouth--we might go over to Portland, if you have any fancy to see the place; I have not; all in good time, say I--and start for Guernsey by the midnight boat. Now is there anything more to say?" "No," said Pauline; then suddenly, "Yes. Apropos of Portland, Wetherall and Moger were in this place to-day. I saw them at the station, in the train going up to town. They put their heads out of the window to look after you." "The devil!" cried Tom Durham; "they were down here, were they, and you saw them? Why, what on earth were you doing at the station?" "I arrived here too soon, and walked up there to pass the time." "Did you--did you see any one else?" asked Tom Durham, looking fixedly at her. "Any one else? Plenty--porters, passengers, what not; but of people that I knew, not a soul," answered the woman, raising her eyes and meeting his gaze with perfect calmness. "That's all right," he muttered; then louder, "Now it's time for me to go on board. Goodbye, Pauline; make your way to Lymington, and look out for me at the station at seven-thirty to-morrow morning." As she stood looking after him, a hard, defiant expression came over the woman's face. "Did I see any one else?" she said between her set teeth; "yes, _mon cher_, I saw the pale, white-faced girl whom you held in your arms and kissed at parting, and who fell back into the carriage and cried like a baby, as she is. This, then, was the secret of your refusing to go to India with the money of this old fool whom you have robbed! Or rather whom she has robbed; for she was the messenger who brought it to you, and it is doubtless she who has beguiled this dotard out of the bank-notes which she handed over to you, her lover. _Peste!_ If that slavish love I have for you were not mixed with the dread and terror which I have learnt from experience, I would escape with this money to my own land, and leave you and your mignonne to make it out as best you might. But I am weak enough to love you still, and my revenge on her must wait for a more fitting opportunity."