For ten days, that seemed to her like as many years, Sybil Denham waited in the shelter into which she had been so relentlessly thrust for an answer to her letter to Bowker Creek, and during the whole of that time she lived apart, exchanging scarcely a word with any one.  Every day, generally twice a day, she went down to the wharf; but, she could not bring herself to linger.  The loneliness that perpetually dogged her footsteps was almost poignant there, and sometimes she came away with panic at her heart.  Suppose Mercer also should forsake her!  She had not the faintest idea what she would do if he did.  And yet, whenever she contemplated his return, she was afraid.  There was something about the man that she had never fathomed—­something ungovernable, something brutal—­from which instinctively she shrank.

On the evening of the tenth day she received her answer—­a letter from Rollandstown by post.  The handwriting she knew so well sprawled over the envelope which her trembling fingers could scarcely open.  Relief was her first sensation, and after it came a nameless anxiety.  Why had he written?  How was it—­how was it that he had not come to her?

Trembling all over, she unfolded the letter, and read: 

“Dear Sybil,—­I am infernally sorry to have brought you out for nothing, for I find that I cannot marry you after all.  Things have gone wrong with me of late, and it would be downright folly for me to think of matrimony under existing circumstances.  I am leaving this place almost at once, so there is no chance of hearing from you again.  I hope you will get on all right.  Anyhow, you are well rid of me.—­Yours,

“ROBIN.”

Beneath the signature, scribbled very faintly, were the words, “I’m sorry, old girl; I’m sorry.”

She read the letter once, and once only; but every word stamped itself indelibly upon her memory, every word bit its way into her consciousness as though it had been scored upon her quivering flesh.  Robin had failed her.  That ghastly presentiment of hers had come true.  She was alone—­alone, and sinking in that awful whirlpool of desolation into which for so long she had felt herself being drawn.  The great waters swirled around her, rising higher, ever higher.  And she was alone.

Hours passed.  She sat in a sort of trance of horror, Robin’s letter spread out beneath her nerveless fingers.  She did not ask herself what she should do.  The blow had stunned all her faculties.  She could only sit there face to face with despair, staring blind-eyed before her, motionless, cold as marble to the very heart of her.  She fancied—­she even numbly hoped—­that she was going to die.

She never heard repeated knocking at her door, or remembered that it was locked, till a man’s shoulder burst it open.  Then, indeed, she turned stiffly and looked at the intruder.

“You!” she said.

She had forgotten Brett Mercer.

He came forward quickly, stooped and looked at her; then went down on his knee and thrust his arm about her.