The Chain Pier stood out quite clear and distinct in the moonlight; very fair and shapely it looked.  Then I went to sleep and dreamed of the white, beautiful, desperate face—­of the woman who had, I believed, thrown her love-letters into the sea.  The wind grew rougher and the sea grew angry during the night; when at times I woke from my sleep I could hear them.  Ah! long before this the love-letters had been destroyed—­had been torn by the swift waves; the faded flowers and all the pretty love-tokens were done to death in the brisk waters.  I wondered if, in thought, that beautiful, desperate woman would go back to that spot on the Chain Pier.

The morning following dawned bright and calm; there was a golden sunlight and a blue sea; why the color of the water should change so greatly, I could not think, but change it did.  I have seen it clear as an emerald, and I have seen it blue as the lakes and seas of Italy.  This morning it wore a blue dress, and a thousand, brilliants danced on its broad, sweet bosom.  Already there were a number of people on the promenade; both piers looked beautiful, and were full of life and activity.  It must have been some kind of holiday, although I forget for what the flags were flying, and there was a holiday look about the town.  I thought I would walk for ten minutes before my breakfast.  I went toward the Chain Pier, drawn by the irresistible attraction of the face I had seen there last evening.

It struck me that there was an unusual number of people about the Chain Pier; quite a crowd had collected at the gate.  People were talking to each other in an excited fashion.  I saw one or two policemen, and I came to the conclusion that some accident or other had happened on the pier.  I went up to the crowd—­two or three boatmen stood leaning over the rail.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“Matter, sir?” replied one; “there is matter enough.  There must have been murder, or something very much like it, done on that pier last night.”

“Murder?” I cried, with a beating heart; “do not use such a horrible word.”

“It is a horrible thing, sir, but it has been done,” replied the boatman.

CHAPTER III.

Why the word “murder” struck me with such a horror I cannot tell.  I stood looking at the old boatman like one struck with dismay.  I was on the point of saying that it was quite impossible, for I had been on the Chain Pier last night, and had seen nothing of the kind.  Some prudent impulse restrained me.

“I would not go so far as to say it was murder,” interrupted a sturdy boatman.  “I have been about here a great many years, and I have seen some queer things.  I should hardly call this murder.”

“It was a life taken away, whether you call it murder or not,” said the old man.

“May be; but I am not sure.  I have seen many mad with misery, but murder is a rare thing.”