But I had not far to go, for at Vaudin’s Inn, which stands at the top of the steep lane running from the Creux Harbor, I saw Tardif at the door.  Now and then he acted as guide when young Vaudin could not fill that office, or had more parties than he could manage; and Tardif was now waiting the arrival of the weekly stream of tourists.  He came to me instantly, and we sat down on a low stone wall on the roadside, but well out of hearing of any ears but each other’s.

“Tardif,” I said, “has mam’zelle told you her secret?”

“Yes, yes,” he answered; “poor little soul! and she is a hundredfold dearer to me now than before.”

He looked as if he meant it, for his eyes moistened and his face quivered.

“She is in great danger at this moment,” I continued.  “A woman sent by her husband has been lurking about in Guernsey to get news of her, and she has come across in the steamer to-day.  She will be in sight of us in a few minutes.  There is no chance of her not learning where she is living.  But could we not hide Olivia somewhere?  There are caves strangers know nothing of.  We might take her over to Breckhou.  Be quick, Tardif! we must decide at once what to do.”

“But mam’zelle is not here.  She is gone!” he answered.

“Gone!” I ejaculated.  I could not utter another word; but I stared at him as if my eyes could tear further information from him.

“Yes,” he said; “that lady came last week with Miss Dobree, your cousin.  Then mam’zelle told me all, and we took counsel together.  It was not safe for her to stay any longer, though I would have died for her gladly.  But what could be done?  We knew she must go elsewhere, and the next morning I rowed her over to Peter-Port in time for the steamer to England.  Poor little thing! poor little hunted soul!”

His voice faltered as he spoke, and he drew his fisherman’s cap close down over his eyes.  I did not speak again for a minute or two.

“Tardif,” I said at last, as the foremost among the tourists came in sight, “did she leave no message for me?”

“She wrote a letter for you,” he said, “the very last thing.  She did not go to bed that night, neither did I. I was going to lose her, doctor, and she had been like the light of the sun to me.  But what could I do?  She was terrified to death at the thought of her husband claiming her.  I promised to give the letter into your own hands; but we settled I must not show myself in Peter-Port the day she left.  Here it is.”

It had been lying in his breast-pocket, and the edges were worn already.  He gave it to me lingeringly, as if loath to part with it.  The tourists were coming up in greater numbers, and I made a retreat hastily toward a quiet and remote part of the cliffs seldom visited in Little Sark.

There, with the sea, which had carried her away from me, playing buoyantly among the rocks, I read her farewell letter.  It ran thus: