“I am obliged to go away very suddenly,” he said; and his voice trembled violently.

Margaret’s face lost colour in answer, and she resisted an impulse to turn and meet his eyes.  She would have liked to, but she felt his look on her, and she feared lest, looking once, she should look too long.

“Must you go away?” she asked with a good deal of self-possession.

“Yes, I fear I must.  I know I must, if I mean to remain here afterwards.  I would rather go at once and be done with it.”  He still spoke uncertainly, as if struggling with some violent hoarseness in his throat.

“Tell me why you must go,” she said imperiously.  Claudius hesitated a moment.

“I will tell you one of the principal reasons of my going,” he said.  “You know I came here to take possession of my fortune, and I very naturally relied upon doing so.  Obviously, if I do not obtain it I cannot continue to live in the way I am now doing, on the slender resources which have been enough for me until now.”

“Et puis?” said the Countess, raising her eyebrows a little.

“Et puis,” continued the Doctor, “these legal gentlemen find difficulty in persuading themselves that I am myself—­that I am really the nephew of Gustavus Lindstrand, deceased.”

“What nonsense!” exclaimed Margaret.  “And so to please them you are going away.  And who will get your money, pray?”

“I will get it,” answered Claudius, “for I will come back as soon as I have obtained the necessary proofs of my identity from Heidelberg.”

“I never heard of anything so ridiculous,” said Margaret hotly.  “To go all that distance for a few papers.  As if we did not all know you!  If you are not Dr. Claudius, who are you?  Why, Mr. Barker went to Heidelberg on purpose to find you.”

“Nevertheless, Messrs. Screw and Scratch doubt me.  Here is their letter—­the last one.  Will you look at it?” and Claudius took an envelope from his pocket-book.  He was glad to have come over to the argumentative tack, for his heart was very sore, and he knew what the end must be.

“No.”  The Countess turned to him for the first time, with an indescribable look in her face, between anger and pain.  “No, I will not read it.”

“I wish you would,” said Claudius, “you would understand better.”  Something in his voice touched a sympathetic chord.

“I think I understand,” said the Countess, looking back at the sea, which was growing dim and indistinct before her.  “I think you ought to go.”

The indistinctness of her vision was not due to any defect in her sight.  The wet fog was rising like a shapeless evil genius out of the sluggish sea, rolling heavily across the little bay to the lovers’ beach, with its swollen arms full of blight and mildew.  Margaret shivered at the sight of it, and drew the lace thing she wore closer to her throat.  But she did not rise, or make any sign that she would go.