Several days passed away, during which William Jones showed a strange and significant affection for his own fireside. He went out a little in the sunlight; but directly night came he locked and barricaded the door as if against thieves, and declined, on any inducement, to cross the threshold. Even had a three-decker gone ashore in the neighbourhood, he would have thought twice before issuing forth into the dreaded darkness.

For William Jones was genuinely afraid; his hereditary calm of mind was shaken, not so much with horror at a murderous deed, as with consternation that his lifelong secret had been discovered by one man, and might, sooner or later, be discovered by others. He did not put implicit faith even in Monk; it was his nature to trust nobody where money was concerned.

As to returning to the cave until he had quite recovered his equanimity, that was out of the question. Even by daylight he avoided the spot with a holy horror. Only in his dreams, which were dark and troubled, did he visit it,—to see the face of the murdered man in the darkness, and the hand of the murdered man pointing at him with cold, decaying finger.

The day after the murder he had been greatly unsettled by a visit from Tim Lenney, who demanded news of his master, and said that he had not returned to the caravan all night. Tim seemed greatly troubled, but gave vent to no very violent ebullitions of grief. When he was gone Matt sat by the fireside, and looked long and keenly at William Jones.

“What are you staring at?” cried he, fidgeting uneasily under her gaze.

“Nowt,” said Matt; “I were only wondering——”

“Then don’t go wondering,” exclaimed the good man rather inconsistently. “You mind your own business, and don’t be a fool!”

And he turned testily and gazed at the fire. But Matt, whose eyes were full of a curious light, was not to be abashed.

“Ain’t you well, William Jones?” she asked.

“I’m well enough,—I am.”

“It’s queer, ain’t it, that the painter chap never come home?”

“How should I know?” growled William. “Maybe he’s gone back to where he come from.”

“Or maybe he’s drownded? Or maybe summat else has happened to him?” suggested Matt.

“Never you mind him, my gal. He’s all right, never fear. And if he ain’t, it’s no affair o’ yours, or mine neither. You go along out and play.”

Matt went out as directed, and it was some hours before she returned. She found her guardian seated in his old place by the fire, looking at vacancy. He started violently as she entered, and made a clutch at the rude piece of ship’s iron which served as a poker.

“Be it you, Matt? Lor’, how you startled me I I were—I were—taking a doze.”

“I’ve been up yonder,” said Matt.

“Up wheer?”

“Up to the painter chap’s cart. He ain’t come back; and the man’s searchin’ for him all up and down the place.”

Fortunately it was very dark, so that she could not see the expression of her hearer’s face. She walked to the fireplace, and, taking a box of lucifers from a ledge, began to procure a light, with the view of igniting the rushlight fixed to the table. But in a moment “William blew out the match, and snatched the box from her.

“What are you doin’ of?” he cried. “Wasting the matches, as if they cost nowt. You’ll come to the workus, afore you’re done.”

The days passed, and there was no news of the absent man. Every day Matt went up to the caravan to make inquiries. At last, one afternoon, she returned looking greatly troubled; her eyes were red, too, as if she had been crying.

“What’s the matter now?” demanded William, who had left his usual seat and was standing at the door.

“Nowt,” said Matt, wiping her eyelids with the back of her hand.

“Don’t you tell no lies. You’ve heerd summat? Stop! What’s that theer under your arm?”

All at once he had perceived that she carried a large roll of something wrapped in brown paper. He took it from her, and opened it nervously. It was the crayon portrait of herself executed by the defunct artist.

“Who gave you this here?” cried William Jones, trembling more than ever.

“Tim.”

“Who’s he?”

“Him as come looking arter his master. The painter chap ain’t found; and now Tim’s goin’ away in the cart to tell his friends. And he give me this—my pictur’; he give me it to keep. His master said I were to have it; and I mean to keep it now he’s dead!”

William Jones handed back the picture, and seemed relieved, indeed, when it was out of his hands.

“Dead?” he muttered, not meeting Matt’s eyes, but looking right out to sea. “Who told you he were dead?”

Matt did not reply, but gazed at William so long and so significantly, that the good man, conscious of her scrutiny, turned and plunged into the darkness of his dwelling.

An hour later a loud voice summoned him forth. He went to the door, and there was Monk of Monkshurst. It was the first time they had met since they parted on the night of the murder. Monk was dressed in a dark summer suit, and looked unusually spick and span.

“Where’s the girl?” he cried, after a whispered colloquy of some minutes. “Matt, where are you?”

In answer to the call Matt appeared at the door. No sooner did she perceive Monk than she trembled violently, and went very pale.

“Come here, Matt,” he said with an insinuating smile. “See! I’ve brought something for you—something pretty for you to wear.”

As he spoke he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small gold ring, set with turquoise stones. But Matt still trembled, and shrank away.

“I don’t want it!—I sha’n’t wear it,” she cried.

“Nonsense, Matt!” said Monk. “Why, it’s a ring fit for a lady. Come, let me put it on your finger.”

So great seemed her agitation, so deep her dread of him, that she could not stir; so that when he approached, laughing, and caught her round the waist, he slipped the ring on her finger before she could resist. But it only remained there a moment. With a quick, sharp cry, she tore herself free, and, taking the ring off, threw it right away from her upon the sand. Then, with a wild gesture of fear and loathing, she rushed into the cottage.

William Jones walked over and picked up the ring, while Monk stood scowling darkly after the fugitive.

“What the devil ails the girl?” cried the latter, with a fierce oath, pocketing the present.

“I dunno. She’s never been the same since—since the painter chap went missing. I’m afeerd he turned the gal’s head.”

“He’ll turn no more heads,” muttered Monk under his breath; then added aloud and with decision, “There must be an end to this. She must be married to me at once.”

“Do you mean it, master? When you spoke on it fust I thought you was joking.”

“Then you were a fool for your pains. She’s old enough, and bold enough, and vixenish enough; but I’ll tame her. I tell you there must be no more delay. My mind’s made up, and I’ll wait no longer.” Sinking their voices they continued to talk together for some time. Now Matt was crouching close to the threshold, and had heard every word of the above conversation, and much that followed it. When Monk walked away and disappeared, leaving William Jones ruminant at the broken gate, she suddenly reappeared.

Curiously enough all her excitement had departed. Instead of weeping or protesting, she looked at William Jones—and laughed.

Monk had left his horse at the coastguard station. Remounting, he rode rapidly away through the sand-hills in the direction of the lake. As he approached the spot of the old encampment, he saw that the caravan had gone.

He rode on thoughtfully till he gained the highway, when he put his horse into a rapid trot. Just before he gained the gate and avenue near to which he had first encountered Brinkley, he saw the caravan before him on the dusty road.

He hesitated for a moment; then hurried rapidly forward, and, arriving close to the vehicle, saw the Irishman’s head looking round at him from the driver’s seat. He beckoned, and Tim pulled up.

“Has your master returned? I am informed that he has been missing for some days.”

Tim shook his head very dolefully.

“No, sor I sorra sight have I seen of him for three days and three nights. I’m going back wid the baste and the house, to tell his friends the bad news. Maybe it’s making fun of me he is, and I’ll find him somewhere on the road.”

“I hope you will,” said Monk sympathetically. “I think—hum—it is quite possible he has, as you suggest, wandered homeward. Good-day to you.”

So saying, Monk turned off by the gate which they had just reached, and rode away up the avenue.

Tim looked after him till he disappeared. Then the same curious change came over him which had come over Matt after she had been listening to the colloquy between Monk and William Jones.

He laughed!