Mr. Sarsby, like most men of his stamp, when brought in touch with larger things than his world knew of, was nervous and helpless. He seemed to throw the whole weight of further action upon this stranger at whose instigation he had commenced the search.

The reading-room was empty except for these two men. Deane was sitting in the little bow window, looking down with apparent interest into the narrow, tortuous street. Sarsby, with a pile of torn and crumpled newspapers in front of him, was still standing, leaning over the long table in the centre of the room. His search was finished. He had no doubt whatever in his mind. The murdered man was indeed Ruby's uncle!

"Mr. Deane!" he exclaimed hoarsely.

Deane turned his head. "Well?"

"There's no doubt at all about it," declared Mr. Sarsby, striking the little pile of papers with the back of his hand. "It's the man—it's Ruby's uncle! The date of his arrival corresponds, and the hotel is the one from which he wrote to Ruby."

Deane nodded. "I fancied that it must be the same," he said.

"It is the same," Mr. Sarsby declared. "What are we to do? Something must be done at once!"

"Exactly," Deane remarked. "Your niece, of course, must claim her inheritance—that is, if the man was really worth anything."

"Of course!—Of course!" Mr. Sarsby said. "Dear me, what an unfortunate business this all is! I suppose I must go to London with her, and London always upsets me horribly."

"I am afraid that you must make up your mind to that," Deane remarked. "As I said before, if there is anything I can do to help you, I shall be delighted."

"But you won't be there," Mr. Sarsby said. "You are going from here to Scotland."

Deane hesitated. "I might," he said,—"in fact I think that I certainly should,—go to Scotland by way of London."

"But we must leave at once!" Mr. Sarsby declared. "At least I suppose so."

Deane rose to his feet. He had not much sympathy for the frightened little man, whose eyes were continually seeking his as though for help and advice.

"Well," he said, "I scarcely see how you can keep away, under the circumstances. You must talk it over with your niece, and let me know what you decide."

They left the place together. As they stepped out on to the pavement, Mr. Sarsby coughed apologetically. "I suppose," said he, "you would consider it necessary for me to tell my niece about this? It will be a shock to her, of course. She had hoped so much from the coming of this uncle, and I am afraid that she is not particularly contented here."

"I scarcely see," Deane answered, "how you can keep it from her."

"There is no mention of any property," Mr. Sarsby remarked,—"none at all. In fact, the papers say that his effects were so small that it seemed difficult to believe that robbery was the motive of the crime. Still, I suppose she must be told."

Deane walked down the narrow street, his hands behind his back, his eyes fixed upon the arm of the river below, dotted now with brown-sailed fishing-boats. Here, after all, was a simple way out of the difficulty! The murdered man had no other relatives. In all probability, no one would ever tell the girl. No one would ever claim the possessions of the dead man, whatsoever they might be. Then common sense reasserted itself in his brain, and he stifled the instinct which he had so nearly yielded to.

"She must be told, Mr. Sarsby," he said. "If you would rather not tell her yourself, I will do so."

Mr. Sarsby shook his head. "It isn't that," he said. "I don't mind telling her. But it's the journey to London, and the excitement, and all that. I hate worry of any sort. It's bad for my health, anyhow."

They stood upon the little quay, and Deane hesitated. "If there is anything further which I can do," he said, "come out and look me up. In any case, let me see you before you start for London."

Mr. Sarsby wrung his hand. "It is very good of you," he declared. "I shall certainly come out before we start,—most certainly! I can't imagine what Ruby will say. Poor girl! Poor girl!"

Deane retraced his steps along the high dyke bank to the marshes which surrounded his tower. Once or twice he looked behind, looked toward the low white front of the cottage which the girl had pointed out as her abode. Once he fancied that he saw something moving in the garden, and he stood on the top of the dyke, gazing with a curious interest at the slowly moving speck passing in and out amongst the trees. Then it vanished. He turned and made his way homeward....

Towards sunset, the heat of the day seemed suddenly to increase. A curiously hot wind sprang up from the land, black clouds gathered in the sky, and unusual darkness hung over the land. The air seemed charged with electricity. Every moment it seemed as though the clouds must break and the storm come. The tide came rolling in, no longer with a faint, insistent ripple, but with great powerful waves, throwing their spray far and wide. Deane left his dinner more than once to stand outside on the little knoll and watch. Every moment he expected to see the banks of black clouds riven with lightning, to hear the far-off muttering across the sea grow nearer and nearer. The whole world seemed to be in a state of suspended animation. The seagulls had ceased their screaming, and had taken shelter in some hidden haunt. A little fleet of fishing-boats had furled their sails. Not a soul was to be seen upon the marshes.

Deane finished his dinner and sat by the wide-open window, leaning upon his folded arms, looking out at the foam-flecked sea,—foam which seemed to glitter with a clear, white phosphorescence in the failing light. There were books by his side, but he felt no inclination to read;—cigarettes and cigars at his elbow, but he lacked the enterprise to smoke. There was something almost theatrical, something breathless, in this pause before the storm! He himself was in an emotional frame of mind. Another page of this tragic chapter had opened before him. The coming of this girl was in itself a catastrophe. She would take possession of the papers belonging to the murdered man,—would show them, probably, to a lawyer. After that, only the worst could happen!

Then, as he sat there, the profound silence was suddenly broken. He heard the crunch of the gravel beneath flying footsteps, the rustle of a skirt, a little half-subdued cry! He looked up in amazement. It was Winifred Rowan who was coming towards him, her hair disordered, her eyes lit with fear,—a strange, half-terrified figure, flying from the storm!

"Miss Rowan!" he exclaimed breathlessly.

Even as he spoke, the clouds were parted at last with a dazzling blaze of forked lightning. The girl gave a little cry and held out her hands. He leaned over, and, as the thunder shook the building, took her into his arms, lifting her over the narrow window-sill into the room.