Whitney pressed his arm sympathetically.

"He's dead."

There was silence for the next minute, except for the mournful murmur of the sea.

"It wasn't long after you went ash.o.r.e," Whitney added. "He looked up and beckoned me to sit on the locker by his cot. 'Tell Andrew I'm glad he'll have Appleyard,' he said."

Whitney paused for a moment.

"He lay still afterward, and I thought he'd gone to sleep. Then the cabin seemed to grow strangely quiet, and when I got up to look at him I saw that he was dead."

"The hurried trip down-channel killed him, and he made it for my sake!" Andrew said, in a tense, hoa.r.s.e voice.

"You mustn't take that for granted; but, if true, he certainly wouldn't grudge the risk. He might have died at any time from some trifling exertion."

Andrew indicated the dinghy, in which he had rowed off from the yacht alone.

"How did you get ash.o.r.e?"

"The bank's steep and I sheered her in until I could jump from the bowsprit end. I didn't want you to come on board without knowing."

"Thanks," said Andrew. "I'm going off to her now. Try to get into Marshall's hut and make a fire. We'll have to wait some time for the doctor."

He launched the dinghy, and when he returned Whitney had lighted a few sticks and peats in the fisherman's sod hut. Andrew's face was grave as he sat down on an empty box.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk," he said.

He let Whitney row the doctor off when he arrived; and day was breaking when they reached Annan. An hour later, Andrew, feeling limp and cold, got down from a trap at Appleyard and walked stiffly into the hall. Elsie came to meet him with a glow in her eyes; but she stopped abruptly when she saw his face.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He looked at her compa.s.sionately and she gasped.

"Oh! Is d.i.c.k--?"

He put his arm around her and led her to an oak bench near the big fireplace.

"d.i.c.k's dead," he said quietly. "On board the _Rowan_. Heart failure, the doctor thinks."

"I sent him, when I knew he was ill!" she cried in distress.

"You didn't know it would do him much harm, dear."

"But I did!" Elsie moaned with a shiver, turning her head.

Andrew was puzzled, but he answered soothingly:

"I know what you feel, because I felt it too--d.i.c.k might have got better and lived a long time if he hadn't gone down-channel to warn me. In fact, I spoke to the doctor about it, but he didn't altogether take this view."

"He didn't want you to blame yourself."

"No; I don't think that was it. But it's a blow to us both, and the worst is I can do nothing to soften it for you."

"You loved him," she said with a look of pain. "You came home from Canada and fought Williamson for his sake. I was often impatient with him, and he always bore it well. He was generous and forgiving--and we know he was brave. He must have known the risk he ran--but he didn't hesitate. I knew it--and I sent him--"

Her voice trailed off and she broke into stormy sobbing, while Andrew, with his arm around her, awkwardly tried to comfort her. His touch seemed to have a soothing influence, for Elsie got calmer.

"You were always a help, Andrew; one turns to you in trouble," she said. "But I mustn't give way like this."

She rose as she spoke, and when she left him Andrew went up to Whitney's room.

"I expect Miss Woodhouse feels the thing keenly," Whitney said.

"Yes; in fact, she feels much as I do, in spite of what the doctor said. If d.i.c.k hadn't gone to our rescue, he'd have been with us yet.

Still, I don't quite understand--"

"You don't see why she let him go, when she thought it might be dangerous?"

"Yes; that's what bothers me," Andrew said with some hesitation.

Whitney gave him a keen glance. He saw that Andrew had no suspicion of the truth; but it was not his business to enlighten him.

"Well, she may have thought there were two lives that could be saved against one that must be risked. It would be desperately hard for a young girl to face the responsibility of deciding right. Miss Woodhouse probably feels the strain--and, no doubt she's rather overcome by the consequences of the line she took. But when she gets calmer she'll see that she can't blame herself. But you had better change your clothes and get some breakfast."

It was a relief to Andrew to find his time occupied. At noon he was surprised by a request for an interview with a man he did not know.

The stranger was shown into the library and gave Andrew a letter.

"My card may convey nothing to you, but here are my credentials."

The letter was from the Home Secretary's office and was countersigned by an eminent military authority.

"I'm at your command," Andrew said. "What is it you want to know?"

"Perhaps I'd better state that my visit is made in a friendly spirit.

We recognize the patriotic line you and your cousin have taken. I met him once, and, it's rather curious, he invited me to Appleyard."

"Ah!" exclaimed Andrew. "I never thought that d.i.c.k--"

"Shared your suspicions? I can't tell you how far his went, but he may have known more than you imagine. He certainly once did us an important service. But we'll let that go. Did Mr. Staffer offer any explanation for leaving here early this morning?"

"He said he was going to Edinburgh; that was all."

"Well, he got to Hawick, where we lost trace of him, but I think it's impossible that he went farther north. Have you any ground for suspecting who brought him the warning?"

"None," said Andrew shortly.

"I'm glad I can take your word, Mr. Johnstone. Now I must ask you to tell me about your recent adventures on the sands. You see, I'm in touch with Lieutenant Rankine and the coastguards."