"Poor faithful watch-dog," he murmured. Then he turned away from the window. "The Skipper does not wait for that boy," he said. "He knows at least that he can never come to him from the sea." "Strangely--no. Indeed, he always looks for the boy first." "First, do you say? Was it so to-night?" Again Uniacke hesitated. He was on the verge of telling a lie, but conscience intervened. "Yes," he said. "Didn't he speak of little Jack?" said Sir Graham slowly, and with a sudden nervous spasm of the face. "Yes, Sir Graham." "That's curious." "Why?" "The same name--my wonder-child's name." "And the name of a thousand children." "Of course, of course. And--and, Uniacke, the other name, the other name upon that tomb?" "What other name?" "Why--why the surname. What is that?" The painter was standing close to the clergyman and staring straight into his eyes. For a moment Uniacke made no reply. Then he answered slowly: "There is no other name." "Why not?" "Why--the--the Skipper would only have Jack put, that was all. Jack--he was the boy on the schooner 'Flying Fish'--'Lead, kindly light.'" "Ah!" The exclamation came in a sigh, that might have been a murmur of relief or of disappointment. Then there was a silence. The painter went over again to the fire. Uniacke stood still where he was and looked on the ground. He had told a deliberate lie. It seemed to grow as he thought of it. And why had he told it? A sudden impulse, a sudden fear, had led him into sin. A strange fancy had whispered to him, "What if that boy buried by the wall yonder should be the wonder-child, the ragamuffin who looked at the rainbow, the sea urchin, the spectre haunting your guest?" How unlikely that was! And yet ships go far, and the human fate is often mysteriously sad. It might be that the wonder-child was born to be wrecked, to be cast up, streaming with sea-water on the strand of this lonely isle. It might be that the eyes which worshipped the rainbow were sightless beneath that stone yonder; that the hands which pointed to it were folded in the eternal sleep. And, if so, was not the lie justified? If so, could Peter Uniacke regret it? He saw this man who had come into his lonely life treading along the verge of a world that made him tremble in horror. Dared he lead him across the verge into the darkness? And yet his lie troubled him, and he saw a stain spreading slowly out upon the whiteness of his ardent soul. The painter turned from the fire. His face was haggard and weary. "I will go to bed," he said. "I must try to get some sleep even in the storm." He held out his thin hand. Uniacke took it. "Good-night," he said. "Good-night. I am sorry I have troubled you with my foolish history." "It interested me deeply. By the way--what did you say your wonder-child's name was, his full name?" "Jack--Jack Pringle. What is it?" "Nothing. That gust of wind startled me. Good-night." The painter looked at Uniacke narrowly, then left the room.