What startled Crawford and made him draw back in terror from the window was the sight beneath him of the stage reaching from Boland's Ait to Crawford's Quay across the murky waters of Crawford's Bay.

Involuntarily he put his hand behind and felt for the revolver in his pocket. It was reassuring to find it safe and within easy reach.

It had been bad enough to know that Philip Ray visited the idiotic recluse, Bramwell, on this accursed island; but to find a means of communication established between the Ait and the Quay was alarming in the extreme.

What could be the object of this floating bridge? Of course it was not there merely by accident. It was there with the consent of the Layards and the poor drivelling creature who lived on the holm.

William Crawford was not an intrepid man. Layard was near the truth when he called him a coward. Crawford never courted danger. His instinct was to flee from it. If he could not run away, he preferred thrusting his head into the sand to looking menace straight in the face. If a person or a place became obnoxious to him he simply went away or stayed away.

In the present case the thing he would like best was that Philip Ray might die, or be killed, or stop away from Boland's Ait because of some sufficient and final reason, death being the most satisfactory of all. After the cessation of Ray's visits to the Ait for fully sufficient reason, what he would have liked was his own absence from the neighbourhood. The latter means of terminating the difficulty lay in his own hands, but two considerations operated against his adopting it. In the first place, he could use the precaution of not being in the house, or even district, during the hours when Ray was likely to be free from his office; and, in the second place, he could not bring himself to abandon his pursuit of Hetty. He was willing to run a moderate risk for her sake.

"I think," he had said to himself that day on his way to Welford, "that if Nellie were to die, and I found Hetty continued to bring me luck, I should marry her."

He had never asked himself whether it was likely Hetty would marry him or not. He always considered that women should be allowed little or no voice in such matters.

From the shock of seeing the stage connecting the Ait and the Quay he recovered quickly. He went back to the window and looked out again.

There was not a cloud in the heavens. The noonday sun of mid-June blazed in the sky. There was no beauty in the scene, but it was looking its best and brightest. Under the broad intense light of day the waters of the Bay and the Canal shone like burnished silver, all their turbidity hidden from sight by the glare, as the darkness in the heart of steel is masked by the polished surface. Now and then a stray wayfarer passed along the tow-path. A barge, piled up high with yellow deals, trailed with slackened rope after the leisurely horse. The grass on the slope up from the tow-path was still green and fresh with the rains of recent spring. Beyond the wall at the top of the bank burned a huge vermilion show-van with golden letters naming in the light. The tiles of Bramwell's cottage glowed a deep red under the blue sky. Afar off factory chimneys, like prodigious columns of some gigantic ruined fane, stood up against the transparent air with diaphanous capitals of blue smoke uniting them to the blue vault above. From Welford Bridge came the dull sound of heavy traffic, and faintly caught from some deep distance came the faint napping beat of heavy hammers driving metal bolts through the stubborn oak of lusty ships. Sparrows skipped on the ground and twittered in the air. High up in the blue measures of the sky a solitary crow sailed silently by unheeding. All the world appeared dwelling in an eternal calm of vital air and wholesome light. All abroad seemed at peace under the spell of a Sabbath sky.

Suddenly he became conscious of voices near and beneath him. He looked out, but could see no one.

"They seem to come from the island," he thought, "and to be children's voices."

"It's a 'bus," said one of the young voices, "and I'm the driver."

"No," said another young voice, but a more resonant one than the former; "it's a tramcar, and I'm the driver."

"And I'm the conductor."

"No; I'm the conductor too."

"And what am I?"

"O, you're the people in the car. Fares, please. Here, give me this piece of slate. That's your fare. O, I say, there's a coal wagon on the line before us!"

The other boy uttered a shrill cry.

"What's that?"

"The whistle for the coal-van to get out of the way."

"But I am the driver, and you are not to whistle."

"Then I am the conductor, and the conductor rings the bell."

"No, you're not. I am the driver and the conductor, and you are the people in the tramcar, and all you have to do is to sit still and pay your fare. Fares, please."

"I am not to pay my fare twice. I don't like to be the people."

"O, but you are to pay your fare again, for we are coming back now, and you are different people."

"I don't like this game. Let us play something else."

"Very well. We'll play it's a boat, and that you fall into the river, and I catch you and pull you out, and----"

"Curse the brats, whoever they are!" cried Crawford fiercely, as he put his hand on the sash and drove the window down violently.

Freddie's words were purely accidental. For neither he nor any one else had heard from Hetty about Crawford's accident at the Mercantile Pier. She had said no more to her brother than that the landlord had come about the gates for the ice-house, and the subsequent alarming attempt at extortion by Red Jim had driven curiosity regarding Crawford's visit out of Layard's mind. Now that the latter had made up his mind to get out of this house as soon as possible, he cared little or nothing about the doings of the owner, so long as the owner kept his eccentricities within reasonable limits. The talk which Layard had with Bramwell on the subject of leaving Crawford's house had made no lasting impression on the brother. When he was by himself that night he made up his mind finally on two points. First, he would have Mrs. Grainger all day in the house; and, second, he would find a new home as soon as he could get rid of the present one.

The words of the child playing in the old timber-yard of the Ait had an unpleasant effect on Crawford. He did not know who the child was, nor could he bring himself to believe that this mishap at the Mercantile Pier had anything to do with the words overheard, and yet the coincidence vexed him. He told himself it was ridiculous to allow the circumstance to disturb him, but he could not help himself.

"I begin to think," he muttered, "that sitting up does not agree with me. I must be growing nervous. I ought to have some sleep if I am to try my luck again to-night--my luck and Hetty's," he added. "But if I sleep I must take care not to overdo it. I don't want to be here when that bearded ape of a brother of hers comes in to dinner." He went to the head of the stairs and called out to Mrs. Grainger to knock at his door and tell him when it was half-past two. Then he took off his coat, waistcoat, and boots, and lay down on his bed.

It was not quite as easy to go to sleep as he imagined it would be. The words of the child kept ringing in his ears. If by any chance the story of his fall into the water reached Hetty's ears, it would not improve his position in her mind. It might, in fact, cover him with ridicule. The bare thought of being laughed at made him writhe and curse and swear.

Well, if he wanted to get any sleep, he must put this nonsensical trouble out of his head. He ought to be very sleepy, and yet he felt strangely wakeful.

Then he could not say seriously to himself that he had made much progress with Hetty. Had he made any? He did not, of course, expect to find her in love with him all at once, but he had hoped she would show a little interest in him. If he must tell himself the truth, the only interest she showed in him was a desire to get him away from herself or to get away from him. In a week or so that would be all changed, but it was not pleasant just now.

"Confound it!" he muttered, turning over on his other side, "if I keep going on this way I shall not get a wink of sleep."

There was no more virtue in lying on one side than the other. He successfully banished from his mind any reflections that might disturb him. He thought of all the pleasant features of his present condition. He had for ever cut himself adrift from Singleton Terrace and the slavery to that infatuated old fool, his wife. He had now in his pocket, even after his losses of last night, four times more money than ever he had owned at one time in all his life before, and he had a weapon to defend himself and his money. He had never possessed a revolver or a pistol of any other kind until now. He was absolutely secure against all danger. No harm could come to him or his money. He was afraid of nothing in the world now, of no one----Curse that Philip Ray!

But he must remember that Philip Ray could have nothing more than a revolver, and that he himself had one, and at close quarters such a weapon was as effective in the hands of a man unaccustomed to its use as in those of one who had practised shooting hours a day for years.

No; sleep would not come. Perhaps if he put the revolver under his head the sense of security its presence afforded would soothe him into slumber.

He got up and took the weapon out of the back pocket of his coat. He poised it in his hand, and looked at it with mingled feelings of timidity and admiration. He cocked it, and took aim at spots on the wall paper a few inches above the level of his own eye. "If Ray were there now, and I pulled this trigger, he would be a dead man in less than a minute. I do not want to kill him. I should not fire except in self-defence. But if I thought he meant any harm, I'd save my life and put an end to his--the murderous-minded scoundrel!"

With the utmost care he lowered the hammer and, thrusting the revolver under his pillow, lay down again.

No; he did not feel any inclination to sleep. He counted a thousand; he watched a large flock of sheep go one by one through a gap; he repeated all the poetry he knew by rote, and found himself as wakeful as ever.

He tumbled and tossed about, and poured out maledictions on his miserable condition. He had not had experience of such a state before. Until to-day he had possessed the power of going to sleep at will. He had never lain awake an hour in his life. This was most tantalising, most exasperating. He should not be fresh for the cards to-night. He should be heavy and drowsy when he wanted to be clear and bright. How could he be fresh enough to play if he did not get rest?

Could it be the burden of this money was too great for him? Was he really apprehensive of being robbed? Brereton had told him it was dangerous to carry so large an amount in cash about with him. Had Brereton's words sunken into his mind, and were they now working on him unawares? No one could gainsay the wisdom of Brereton's caution. It was a dangerous thing to go about the streets of London with three thousand pounds in one's pocket. But there was nothing else for it. He would not put the money in an English bank, for he could not get an introduction without betraying himself, his presence in London, and telling more of his affairs than he desired. Lodging it in the Richmond bank was quite out of the question.

It was maddening to feel he could not sleep. Could it really be he was, unknown to himself, in dread of being plundered if he lost consciousness?

He opened his eyes and looked around him. Then, with an angry exclamation, he sprang up.

"What an idiot I have been," he cried, "to leave the door unlocked! My reason must be going when I could be guilty of such folly."

He turned the key in the lock. He looked around the room. He had shut the window to keep out the voices of the children, but he had omitted to fasten it down. He hasped it now. Then he went to the chair on which his coat lay, took the bundle of notes out of his breast-pocket, and thrust it under the pillow of the bed beside the revolver. He looked at his watch. "One o'clock," he muttered. "Now for an hour and a half's sleep. I shall wake fresh, and then be off to town."

Now and then he thought his desire was about to be realised. Now and then for a moment a confusion arose in his senses, and he lost the sharp outlines of reality, only to return to intense wakefulness and renewed despair.

"I shall go mad!" he cried in his heart. "Something tells me I shall go mad. Between Ray, and the Club, and Singleton Terrace, and Hetty, and the money, and this want of sleep, I know I shall go mad. Insomnia is one of the surest signs of coming insanity. O, it would be cruel--cruel if anything happened to me now that I have just won all! I am free of Nellie; I have the money; I have felt the influence of Hetty's luck, and will feel it again to-night. If Hetty would only come with me I should be out of the way of Kate's brother. Curse him a thousand times! And now I feel my head is going, my brain is turning. It isn't fair or just after all the trouble I have taken. It is horrible to think of losing everything now that I have so much within my grasp. I think that fall into the river and the meeting with Kate afterwards must have hurt my brain. And this sleeplessness, this wearing sleeplessness, will finish the work! O, it is too bad, too cruel! It is not fair!"

With a cry of despair he rose and began pacing up and down the room, frantically waving his hands over his head, and moaning in his misery.

Mrs. Grainger knocked at the door.

"It's half-past two, sir."

"All right."

The voice of the woman acted like a charm.

"What on earth," he asked himself, pausing in his walk, "have I been fooling about? I daresay that ducking and the fright of it, and the meeting with Kate, and the long repression at Singleton Terrace, and the cards, and finding myself so near Ray, and this bridge from the island to the Quay, and having the anxiety of the money on my mind, have all helped to put me a little out of sorts, and therefore, like the fool that I am, I must think I am going mad. The only sign of madness there is about me is that I should fancy such a thing. Why, the mere lying down has made me all right. I feel quite refreshed and young again. And now I must off. I don't want to meet that grinning bearded oaf."

Crawford put on his coat, waistcoat, and boots, replaced the money and the revolver in his pockets, and went downstairs. He could see Hetty through the open door of the sitting-room, arranging the table for dinner.

"I perceive," he called out to her in a blithe voice, "that you have opened up communications with your Robinson Crusoe. You have got a plank, or a stage, or something, from the Quay to the Ait."

"O," said Hetty, "Robinson Crusoe has a little boy the same age as our Freddie, and Freddie goes over every day to play with young Crusoe, and that's why the stage is there."

"I heard children's voices from my room. I suppose they belonged to Freddie and his young friend?"

"Yes. You couldn't be within a mile of the place without hearing Freddie's voice."

"Good-day."

"Good-day." Crawford went to the door and opened it. Suddenly a thought struck him, and he closed the door and ran upstairs. When he found himself in his own room he shut the door, and said to himself in a tone of reproach, "How stupid of me not to think of that before. Why need I carry all this money about with me when I can leave the bulk of it here?"

He counted out twenty-five one hundred-pound notes and locked them in a drawer. He turned the key in the lock of the door on the outside, and dropped it into his pocket. Then he slipped down the stairs noiselessly and gained the street without seeing either Hetty or Mrs. Grainger.

"I feel a new man now," he said to himself. "There is about as much chance of my going mad as of my being made Archbishop of Canterbury. And now we shall see if there is anything in my notion about Hetty's luck. Tonight will be the test."