Mr. Austin Ambrose was spending an extremely unpleasant evening. It sounds as if it would be a very nice thing to play with one's fellow creatures as if they were puppets—to pull the wires which govern their actions, and to make them dance to one's piping; but the wire-puller has sometimes a very uncomfortable time of it.

Mr. Austin Ambrose had up to the present found his puppets quite docile and obedient to the pulling of the wires. He had got Lord Blair and Margaret secretly married, he had hidden them away at Appleford; his puppet Lottie had played her part really quite admirably, and Margaret was fully convinced that she had been betrayed and ruined by the man she loved.

So far, so well; but still Mr. Austin Ambrose was uncomfortable. He had left Margaret to herself, knowing that if so left she would be more likely to carry out his desire and fly, than if he remained with her.

But he did not mean to lose sight of her; it was his intention to travel by the same train if possible, and to track her, unseen himself, to her place of refuge.

So he went and placed himself on the road leading to the station, and lighting a cigarette, waited as patiently as he could.

Hour passed after hour, and still she did not come. Then the clouds rose, and the sky grew murky, and presently the storm broke.

"Confound women!" he muttered, vainly trying to light the last of his cigarettes; "you can never count upon them. I would have sworn that she would have made for the station; and yet she hasn't. She's waiting to see Blair, after all. Well, I'll go and see. There'll be a scene presently, if she remains, and I hate a scene!"

With his coat-collar turned up he climbed to the cottage and knocked.

There was no answer; and after waiting and knocking again, he opened the door.

To his amazement, the cottage seemed deserted. He was calling Mrs. Day impatiently, when a woman came running with her apron over her head from the neighboring cottage.

"Mrs. Day's out, sir. She's gone down to the beach," she said in answer to his inquiries, "and I've got the children with me. It's lonely for 'em here, and such a storm raging."

"But—but Mrs. Stanley?" he said quickly; "she's in, is she not?"

The woman stared at him.

"Mrs. Stanley, sir—the lady, sir? Oh, no; she went out hours ago."

"Nonsense!" he said roughly. "I beg your pardon; I mean that it is impossible that she should be out in this storm."

"Yes, but she is, sir. I saw her go down the path in the afternoon with her mackintosh on her arm. I think she went to meet her good gentleman."

Austin Ambrose started, and his face flushed.

If she had, and they had met before—well, before something that he hoped had happened—all his plans, all his deeply and skillfully laid plots would be smashed and pulverized.

He turned his back to the woman, that she might not see his face.

"I—I think she must be in the house still," he said, with a sudden hope; "she may have come back, you know."

"She may, but I don't think she could without my seeing her. Howsomever, it's easy to find out." And she lit a candle and went up the stairs, calling respectfully, "Mrs. Stanley, are you in, ma'am?" while Austin Ambrose listened intently.

In a minute or two she came down.

"No, sir, she's not in the house. I'm afraid the poor lady's in the storm; leastways, unless she's taken shelter."

Austin Ambrose caught up his hat.

"If she should come in before I return," he said, hurriedly, "ask her to wait till I see her and speak with her. Do you hear? Do not let her go. You understand?"

The woman, frightened by his pallor and sternness, dropped a courtesy, and he rushed out and down the path.

If she had gone down the road to Ilfracombe, and had met Blair! His heart almost ceased beating at the thought. She would meet Blair, and, he knew too well, frustrate the elaborate plot, and ruin the plotter.

He gained the entrance of the road to 'Combe; two or three men were standing under the shelter of a shed, with their tools beside them.

"Have you been working here—in the fields?" he inquired.

"Yes, master, and we be drenched through, we be!" said one.

"Have you seen a lady—a lady with a veil—come this way—to Ilfracombe, I mean?" he said, trying to steady his voice. "I am afraid she has got caught in the storm."

The men shook their heads.

"No," said he who had spoken first; "no one has been along this road 'cepting the gentleman who rode Farmer James' colt this morning."

"I know—I mean I don't know," said Austin Ambrose, catching himself up. "Are you sure?"

"Sure and sartain!" said another man. "We've been working in sight o' the road all day, and the lady couldn't a passed without our seeing her. Have you got a bit of 'bacca, your honor?"

He tossed them a shilling, and hurried back. It was just possible that she may have gone to the station by another road than that which he had watched. Fighting his way against the wind and rain, he reached the station.

From one and another of the porters he inquired if she had been seen, and the answer was the same. No lady answering to Madge's description had reached the station. Half wild with impatience and fear—not for her, by any means, certainly not; but for himself!—he returned to the beach.

As he did so he saw a gang of fishermen and sailors standing under the lee of a rock, and peering out to sea.

They did not hear him approach, and, in his noiseless fashion, he got close up to them and within hearing unnoticed.

"No boat could put out from the beach, man," said the old man with whom Margaret had spoken that morning. "We've tried it with the best of them, the Lass and the Speedwell, and it ain't no manner o' use. 'Sides, where's the good? the tide have swept over the rock an hour agone!"

"And you're sure you seed her?" asked a man.

"Do 'ee think I've gone silly all in a moment?" retorted the old fellow, pettishly. "I tell 'ee, I seed her on the top, half a-sitting and half a-lying. I did think as I'd get up and go to her, but I'd warned her in the morning, this very blessed morning; and the missus come and called me in to tea, and—and bla'-me if I didn't forget her."

"Oh, she's lost! She's drownded, as sure as a gun! Well, sakes a mercy, but it's a pity."

"We've all got to die," remarked a man philosophically; "and most on us dies by drownding; but then we're used to it, which makes all the difference."

Austin Ambrose pushed his way into their midst, startling them not a little.

"Of whom are you talking?" he demanded, and his voice sounded harsh and stern.

The old man touched his forehead and puffed at his pipe.

"It's the poor young lady up at Mrs. Day's, your honor," he said; "she've been and got washed off the Long Rock——"

Austin Ambrose put his hand up with a strange gesture, as if to stop him, and his face grew livid.

"What?" he cried hoarsely. "You say—oh, impossible!"

The old man shook his head.

"It's the possiblest thing as can be," he said grimly. "Seed her there myself, and I thought she'd gone to look at the tide. I never thought as she'd stop there after the warning I give her. I told her about the lady and gentleman as was lost there two year agone," he added to the others.

Austin Ambrose rushed out to the rocks and stared before him like a man dazed. Then he sprung to his feet.

"I'll give any man twenty pounds who will launch a boat and search for her," he cried hoarsely.

There was a profound silence. Then the old fisherman said grimly:

"Twenty pun ain't much for a man's life, your honor."

"I will give fifty—a hundred!" he cried desperately.

"Bless your honor's heart," said the old man slowly, "no boat could live in this—that is, near the beach—it might in the open! It's to be hoped it will, for Day's out," he said significantly. "No, your honor, a thousand pounds wouldn't tempt us; besides, it's too late! too late! The poor lady is drifting out to the sands, and the last's been seen of her or ever will be seen on this earth!"

Austin Ambrose uttered a cry, an awful cry. They who heard it thought that it was that of sorrowing friend or relative; but the cry was one of pity for himself and all his shattered hopes. After all his cleverness, his deep-laid schemes and restless toil, he had been foiled—and by the woman he had fooled and deceived!

It was maddening. And indeed as he reeled away from the group he looked like a man demented.

Suddenly he heard a shout and staggered back.

A man came running toward them with something in his hand. He held the wet and dripping articles on high and surveyed his companions gravely.

"The old 'un's right!" he said slowly. "Here be the poor lady's cape and hat!"

Austin Ambrose tore them from the man's hand.

"Are you sure?" he gasped.

"Yes," came a grave chorus. "We've see'd her wear 'em, time and again. They're hers, and she's lost, poor soul!"

Austin Ambrose walked away with the hat and cape in his hands.

At the back of the beach, on the quay, was a small inn, through whose red curtains the light shone cheerily. He pushed open the door and entered with unsteady gait. The little place was full of sailors and fishermen, all talking about the sad event, and recalling the similar fatality of two years ago. As he entered they became suddenly silent.

"Give me some brandy!" he said, hoarsely.

The landlady mixed him a glass of hot brandy-and-water, and he took it in both hands and drank it; then he sank on to a seat, and with tightly compressed lips stared at the door.

For the time he was unconscious of the presence of the others, deaf to their voices, which arose again in a hushed tone.

"It's the awfulest night," said one, "the awfulest! The poor gentleman's out in it, too! Farmer James have gone down the road to look for him. He's afeard the colt will be skeared by the lightning."

"Ah," said another; "not come back yet, poor gentleman? What a terrible story it will be to tell him. They beant long been mated, have they?"

"Hush!" said a warning whisper, and the speaker nodded toward the crouching figure. "Her brother, most like," he added, in a whisper. "He's took all aback, poor fellow."

There was silence again, then they commenced to talk once more, and still Austin Ambrose sat still and motionless.

Suddenly the door was flung open, and a short, active-looking man dashed in.

"Why, Farmer James!" cried one of two, "what's amiss, man?"

"Give me time!" panted the farmer. "It's a night o' bad news, boys! The colt's come home—without him!"

The men sprung to their feet, and looked at the speaker aghast.

"Without the gentleman, farmer?"

"Ay," he said solemnly, wiping the perspiration from his face. "I met the colt tearing down the road to the stable with the saddle empty. A lantern, missis, quick. Who'll lend a hand, boys?"

One and all turned out and proceeded at something between a trot and a run into the road.

At a little distance the colt stood, wet and trembling, held by a boy. They paused a moment to stare at it and then passed on.

Austin Ambrose, uninvited by them, joined the group and ran with them.

They stopped a moment where the two roads joined, the one Blair had taken in the morning, the other he was returning by in the evening.

"Let's divide," said a man; but the farmer stooped down and examined the road.

"No occasion," he said; "here's the colt's hoof-marks. This is the road she come!"

Hurrying along, they climbed the narrow lane, and the foremost, a young lad carrying the lantern, stopped with a cry at the motionless form lying in the road.

There was a hush as the men crowded round. The farmer knelt down and examined it for a moment, then he looked up.

"I'm afeared he's dead," he said gravely.

"Is—is it foul play, do 'ee think, Farmer James?" inquired one of the men.

"Foul play!" the words ran round. "Why do 'ee say that?"

The man, a small, sharp-eyed old fellow, pointed to the road.

"Looks as if there'd been a struggle," he said. "But no matter now. Take that gate off its hinges, lads, and lay him on it. We'll carry him down to the Holme."

The gate was torn off its hinges—how little they guessed that it was not for the first time that night!—and some coats laid upon it; then they stooped to raise poor Blair.

As they did so, Austin Ambrose slid forward.

At the sound of the words "foul play," he had aroused. All was lost; Margaret dead, Blair dead; all his toil and ingenuity thrown away. But if these rustics were suspicious it was time to think of his own safety.

"Let me see!" he said, in a low voice. "He—he is a friend of mine. Who said 'foul play?' If I thought so—but, no! Look!" and he pointed to the stirrup through which the foot was thrust. "My poor friend was thrown from the saddle; the mare bolted and must have dragged him. His foot is still in the stirrup."

"That's true," said one. "Ah! if that stirrup leather had slipped out sooner——"

Almost in silence they carried him down to the small farm called the Holme; and the good-hearted people roused from their beds did their best for him.

In a short time he was undressed and put to bed.

Austin Ambrose, calm and self-possessed, but very sorrowful, showed the affliction of a brother.

"I am afraid it is all over!" he said, as they gathered round the bed and looked at the handsome face and stalwart form, which many of them had seen depart in the morning so full of life and happiness.

After a time the doctor came. He was an old man, who had worn himself out in the hard practice of a wild country-side. Accidents were his daily experience, and he fell to work in the cool, business-like way acquired by custom.

White and breathless, Austin Ambrose, who had been permitted to remain during the examination, waited for the verdict. It came at last.

"He's not dead," said the old doctor, gravely, "and that's about all that can be said. It was a terrible blow!"

Austin Ambrose's lips contracted, and his eyes sought the old man's weather-beaten face keenly.

"A blow, doctor?" he said, gravely.

"Yes," was the reply; "he was struck on the back of the head, sir."

Austin Ambrose uttered an exclamation.

"Oh, impossible, doctor!" he said. "Who should do such a thing? My poor friend had not an enemy in the world."

"Plunder?" said the old man, questioningly.

Austin Ambrose shook his head.

"His purse, watch, jewelry, even the things he purchased at Ilfracombe, are untouched. Besides, we found him lying, his foot still entangled in the stirrup, as you have heard."

"Humph!" said the doctor, still at work with restoratives. "Well, he must have fallen on the back of his head; but"—he looked puzzled and frowned thoughtfully—"but it's very strange. If I hadn't known what you have just told me, I should say that he had been struck, and that if he should die, the coroner's verdict would have to be 'Willful murder!'"

Austin Ambrose's lips twitched, but he shook his head and sighed.

"Thank Heaven that I have no such suspicion—it would be too dreadful! No, my poor friend was thrown and dragged by the frightened horse. It is, alas! too common an accident."

"Yes, yes, just so," said the doctor. "It's a pity, a thousand pities, for he is a splendid fellow," and he looked with sad admiration on the stalwart form. "What is his name?"

Austin Ambrose hesitated a moment.

"His name is Stanley. He is a very dear friend of mine," he added, "and only recently married."

The old doctor started.

"You don't mean to say that he's the husband of the unfortunate young lady who was drowned off Long Rock this morning?"

Austin Ambrose nodded, the doctor sighed.

"Well, sir, I'll do my best to bring him back to life; but it will be cruel kindness, I fear, under the circumstances. Poor young fellow! But if he should die he will be spared the misery awaiting him!"

"You—you think there is no hope of her escape?" faltered Austin.

The doctor shook his head.

"There may be a faint hope for him," he said, pointing to the bed. "But for her there is none, none whatever. She was seen on the rocks; they tell me that her cape and hat have been found washed ashore. No; if he should die they will not be long apart. But you look worn out, sir, you had better get some rest."

Austin Ambrose shook his head.

"I will not go until——" and he stopped significantly.

For the remainder of the night they watched beside the still form. Life was in yet, beating faintly, like a flickering lamp; but the dawn came, and Blair still remained hovering between the shores of the River of Death.

The morning passed. The whole village was in a state of excitement over the two accidents; that they should have happened on the same day, and to man and wife, seemed phenomenal, and every one of the inns drove a roaring trade with the crowds of excited men.

There was the chance, too, of another fatality, for the Days' boat had disappeared, and it was rumored that she had gone down in the storm.

Toward evening, however, the crowd collected on the beach, for the boat had been sighted.

Austin Ambrose had left Blair for a short rest, but he could neither sleep nor remain quiet, and his restless feet had dragged him to Appleford.

He stood just on the edge of the crowd watching the boat with lack-luster eyes that shone dully in his pallid face.

There was a rush and a cheer as the boat came in, and two or three men ran out into the water—it was smiling calmly enough now—to haul her in, but as her keel touched the beach, Day held up his hand.

"Don't cheer, lads," he said, gravely; "I've bad news."

"Ay, ay, we can guess, James," said a voice, "you've seen the poor lady!"

Day started and glanced at his wife, who sat in the stern, her shawl to her eyes.

"Tell 'em, you," he said, in a whisper.

She raised her head.

"Yes," she said, with a sob, "I've seen the poor lady. We saw her on the rocks, almost at the last moment."

"And you couldn't get near?" said a man.

She looked round.

"Do you think we'd be here without her if there'd been half a chance?" she said, reproachfully.

"Ay, ay!" said the old boatswain. "Well, well, that settles it, and that's some'at of a comfort! The poor soul's gone! Don't 'ee cry, missis!" he added as he helped Mrs. Day out of the boat.

It so happened that as she stepped on the beach she was near Austin Ambrose.

He had been listening in a kind of stupor, his eyes wandering from Mrs. Day's face to her husband's.

At the moment of her landing he was so near that her arm touched his.

As it did so his eyes fell upon the shawl which she had been pressing to her eyes.

The sun was shining full on it, and in the dull vague fashion peculiar to his frame of mind his eye was following the pattern.

Suddenly he started, and a light shone in his eyes.

"Let me help you," he said, and gently but firmly he laid his hand upon her arm covered by the shawl.

And, as he did so, the light gleamed still more brightly in his face, for he discovered that the shawl with which she had been wiping away her tears—was dry!