The two men walked together through the darkness as far as the door of William Jones’s hut; then they parted. Mr. Monk struck across the sand-hills towards his own home, while Jones entered the doorway of his cabin.

He would fain have found that cabin empty, for the memory of that last scene in the cave was still upon him, and made him as nervous as a child. But the old man was there, and wide-awake, and evidently pleased at his son’s return.

“Where have you been, William dear?” said he. The question was innocent enough in itself, but it was full of hidden meaning for William Jones.

“Where have I been?” he repeated; “at work to be sure!”

The tone of his reply startled the old man. He looked up, and saw to his amazement that William was as white as a ghost, and trembling violently.

“What’s the matter, William, dear?” he asked eagerly. “Have ye seen a wreck, my son?”

“No, I ain’t!” responded his son violently; “and look ye now, old ’un, you jest be quiet, and let me alone, that’s all!”

The old man, knowing his son’s temper, did as he was told, and William began to potter aimlessly about the room. He was certainly trembling very much, and was almost overcome with a nervousness for which he himself could not account. For he was no coward. To get possession of a prize on the high seas he would have faced a storm which might well make brave men tremble, not to mention that he knew that he had on more than one occasion humanely hastened the end of shipwrecked sailors, whom he had found and pillaged on the shore. After these acts he had been able to sleep the sleep of virtue without being haunted by dead men’s eyes. But now the case was different. He had not to deal with a victim without friends, a man whose body, described as that of a “shipwrecked mariner,” could be buried and forgotten without any more ado. In all probability there would this time be a hue and cry, and William Jones trembled lest his share in the ghastly business might ultimately be discovered.

True, he was not actually the culprit, and so, even at the worst, he might escape the gallows—but to a man of his sensitive and affectionate nature the thought of transportation was not pleasant. It was this that made him nervous—this that made him start and tremble at every sound.

Presently a thought struck him.

“Where’s Matt?” he asked.

“Don’t know, William, dear; she ain’t been here for hours and hours. Maybe she’s on the shore.”

“Maybe she is. I’ll go and have a look,” returned William.

It must not be supposed for a moment that William Jones had become afflicted with a sudden and tender interest in Matt—he merely wanted to get quit of the cabin, that was all, and he saw in this a reasonable excuse for walking out alone. He accordingly made his escape, and went wandering off along the shore.

It was ten o’clock when he returned; he was still pale, and drenched to the skin. The old man was dozing beside the fire, and alone.

“Where’s Matt?” asked William again.

“Ain’t you seen her, William, dear? Well, she ain’t here.”

William Jones did look a little uneasy this time, and it is but due to him to confess that his uneasiness was caused by Matt’s prolonged absence. Erratic as she was in her movements, she had not been accustomed to staying out so late, especially on a night when the rain was pouring, and not a glimmer of star or moon was to be seen.

“Wonder what she’s doin’ of?” said William; “suppose I’d best wait up for her.. Here, old man, you go to bed, d’ye: hear—you ain’t wanted anyhow.”

The old man accordingly went to bed, and William sat up to await Matt’s return. He sat beside the hearth, looked into the smouldering fire, and listened to the rain as it poured down steadily upon the roof. Occasionally he got up, and went to the door; he could see nothing, but he heard the patter of the falling rain, and the low dreary moan of the troubled sea.

Hour after hour passed, and Matt did not come. William Jones began to doze by the fire—then he sank into a heavy sleep.

He awoke with a start, and found that it was broad daylight. The fire was out, the rain had ceased to fall, and the morning sun was creeping in at the windows. He looked round, and saw that he was still alone. He went into Matt’s room—it was empty. She had not returned.

He was now filled with vague uneasiness. He made up a bit of fire, and was about to issue forth again in search of the truant, when all further trouble was saved him—the door opened, and Matt herself appeared.

She seemed almost as much disturbed as William Jones himself. Her face was very pale, her hair wild, her dress in great disorder. She started on seeing him; then, assuming rather a devil-may-care look, she lounged in.

“You’re up early, William Jones,” she said.

“Yes, I am up early,” he replied gruffly; “’cause why?—’cause I ain’t been to bed. And where have you been—jest you tell me that.”

“Why,—I’ve been out, of course!” returned the girl defiantly.

“That won’t do, Matt,” returned William Jones. “Come, you’ll jest tell me where you’ve been. You ain’t been out all night for nothing.”

The girl gave him a look half of defiance, half of curiosity; then she threw herself down, rather than sat, upon a chair.

“I’m tired, I am,” she said; “and hungry, and cold!”

“Will you tell me where you’ve been, Matt?” cried William Jones, trembling with suspicious alarm.

“‘Course I will, if you keep quiet,” said the girl in answer. “There ain’t much to tell neither. I were away along to Pencroes when the heavy rain came on, then I lay down behind a haystack and fell asleep, and when I woke up it was daylight, and I came home.”

William Jones looked at her steadfastly and long; then, as if satisfied, he turned away. About an hour later he left the hut and walked along the shore, straining his eyes seaward. But instead of looking steadfastly at one spot, as his custom was, he paused now and again to gaze uneasily about him. At every sound he started and turned pale. In truth, he was becoming a veritable coward—afraid almost of the sound of his own footsteps on the sands.