The frantic woman lay in a heap at the door, crouching against it, in such a tumult of brain and heart, of distress at the loss of her child, and rage against the captain, that she was incapable of rising. She remained panting, biting her fingers, beating her head, and sobbing. But the very violence of her emotions exhausted their force, and presently she rose to her feet and reeled away. Whither should she go? In what direction look? Already a cold light was beginning to show over the Rousdon heights. A November day was at hand. The bushes deepened into intense blackness in contrast with the paling skies. The fangs of chalk seemed to gleam as teeth exposed against her. Rattenbury had bidden her seek Winefred at the coastguards' station, but the officer had declared his ignorance of the whereabouts of the girl. The charge of having betrayed him made by Captain Job served as an excuse for ridding himself of guests whom he had come to regard as encumbrances if not as enemies. Jane knew her daughter sufficiently to be aware that the charge was groundless. Winefred was not one to show treachery to the man whose house had sheltered her. But whither was she to turn? She took some steps towards the preventive station rather because she knew not where else to go than with any expectation of obtaining tidings there. She had not gone far before she came upon a man, one of the service, on the watch. At her demand he replied that he could supply her with no information. 'It is of no use whatever your going to the station,' said he; 'no one there can help you.' She turned irresolutely and wandered not knowing whither she went, first in one direction, then in another. Her appearance was forlorn; half-clothed, with dishevelled hair, and with face white with despair. She came repeatedly on men upon the watch. To each she put her question, always to receive the same discouraging answer. In her dazed condition she did not consider that it was strange that she should encounter so many men on the alert at so raw an hour. She could think of but one topic――her loss. Then an idea came glimmering into her clouded brain, that possibly her child might have strayed into Axmouth. And yet why? What cause could have drawn her from her bed and from the house at night? She took a turn in the direction of the village; the lane she followed led from the down by a sharp descent to Bindon, an ancient and picturesque house, once a mansion of the Wyke family, now occupied as a farm. The light was widening. She opened the gate in the wall and entered the court before the dwelling. The house with its gables and broad mullioned windows, bore a peaceful, smiling appearance. In the grey dawn the yellow illumined windows winked at her in friendly fashion. As the unhappy mother rapped at the door, a stout, motherly body bounced forth with her lap full of wheat for the pigeons.