Lady Tintagel turned back into the Oak Room, switched off the pale lights, gathered up her treasures, locked the despatch-box and, taking it with her, crossed the hall and slowly mounted the stairs to her bedroom. Each step meant a separate effort. The mainspring of her life was broken. This was the end.

Arrived at her room, she slipped off her velvet gown, put on a soft white wrapper, and laid herself down upon the bed.

“‘They went away toward the sunrising,’” she quoted. “Where is it written?” She repeated it, mechanically. “‘They went away toward the sunrising.’”

Then memory returned and with it the shock of realisation.

He had gone. He had gone for ever. He was swimming into the sunrise, and never coming back.

Dear God—was there no hope, no help?

She rose from the bed.

She must watch to the end.

She went out on to the wide balcony, overlooking the sea, where stood the telescope.