She understood quite well: a faint colour mantled in her pale face. She had been as forgetful as he. "God bless you, Lucy," he whispered. "Farewell." "O Karl--a moment," she implored with agitation, hardly knowing, in the pain of parting, what she said. "Just to tell you that I have not forgotten. I never shall forget. My regret, for what had to be, lies on me still." "God bless you," he repeated, in deep emotion. "God bless and restore you, Lucy!" Once more their fingers met in a brief handshake. And then they parted; he going one way, she the other; and the world had grown dim again. Later in the day Karl heard it incidentally mentioned by some people in the coffee-room, that Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve with their daughter and two servants were going to make a prolonged stay on the Continent for the benefit of the young lady's health, who had been suffering from fever. Little did they think that the quiet, distinguished looking man in mourning, who had but come in to ask for some information, and was waiting while the waiter brought it, had more to do with the young lady's failing health than any fever. Captain Andinnian took his breakfast next morning in private: as he sat down to it, the waiter brought him a newspaper. While listlessly unfolding it, he took the opportunity to ask a question. "Have Colonel Cleeve and his family left the hotel?" "Yes, sir. Just gone off for Folkestone. Broiled ham, sir; eggs; steak with mushrooms," continued the man, removing sundry covers. "Thank you. You need not wait." But--ere the man had well closed the door, a startled sound like a groan of agony burst from Karl's lips. He sprung from his seat at a bound, his eyes riveted on the newspaper in one stare of disbelieving horror. The paragraph had a heading in the largest letters-- "ATTEMPTED ESCAPE FROM PORTLAND ISLAND. DEATH OF THE PRISONER, SIR ADAM ANDINNIAN." Karl let the newspaper fall, and buried his face on the table-cloth to shut out the light. He had not courage to read more at once. He lay there praying that it might not be true. Alas! it was too true. Two prisoners had attempted to escape in concert; Sir Adam Andinnian and a man named Cole. They succeeded in reaching the water, and got off in a small boat lying ready in wait. Some warders pursued them in another boat; and, after an exciting chase in the dark night, came up with them as they reached the Weymouth side. Sir Adam was shot dead by a pistol; the small boat was upset, and one of the warders drowned. Cole was supposed to have made his escape. Such was the statement given in the newspapers. And, however uncertain the minor details might be at this early stage, one part appeared to admit of no doubt--Adam Andinnian was dead. "I seemed to foresee it," moaned Karl. "From the very first, the persuasion has lain upon me that this would be the ending."