Before I could find an answer to this immensely comprehensive question, an apparition advanced towards me, out of a dark corner of the kitchen.  A wan, wild, haggard girl, with remarkably beautiful hair, and with a fierce keenness in her eyes, came limping up on a crutch to the table at which I was sitting, and looked at me as if I was an object of mingled interest and horror, which it quite fascinated her to see.

“Mr. Betteredge,” she said, without taking her eyes off me, “mention his name again, if you please.”

“This gentleman’s name,” answered Betteredge (with a strong emphasis on gentleman), “is Mr. Franklin Blake.”

The girl turned her back on me, and suddenly left the room.  Good Mrs. Yolland—­as I believe—­made some apologies for her daughter’s odd behaviour, and Betteredge (probably) translated them into polite English.  I speak of this in complete uncertainty.  My attention was absorbed in following the sound of the girl’s crutch.  Thump-thump, up the wooden stairs; thump-thump across the room above our heads; thump-thump down the stairs again—­and there stood the apparition at the open door, with a letter in its hand, beckoning me out!

I left more apologies in course of delivery behind me, and followed this strange creature—­limping on before me, faster and faster—­down the slope of the beach.  She led me behind some boats, out of sight and hearing of the few people in the fishing-village, and then stopped, and faced me for the first time.

“Stand there,” she said, “I want to look at you.”

There was no mistaking the expression on her face.  I inspired her with the strongest emotions of abhorrence and disgust.  Let me not be vain enough to say that no woman had ever looked at me in this manner before.  I will only venture on the more modest assertion that no woman had ever let me perceive it yet.  There is a limit to the length of the inspection which a man can endure, under certain circumstances.  I attempted to direct Limping Lucy’s attention to some less revolting object than my face.

“I think you have got a letter to give me,” I began.  “Is it the letter there, in your hand?”

“Say that again,” was the only answer I received.

I repeated the words, like a good child learning its lesson.

“No,” said the girl, speaking to herself, but keeping her eyes still mercilessly fixed on me.  “I can’t find out what she saw in his face.  I can’t guess what she heard in his voice.”  She suddenly looked away from me, and rested her head wearily on the top of her crutch.  “Oh, my poor dear!” she said, in the first soft tones which had fallen from her, in my hearing.  “Oh, my lost darling! what could you see in this man?” She lifted her head again fiercely, and looked at me once more.  “Can you eat and drink?” she asked.

I did my best to preserve my gravity, and answered, “Yes.”

“Can you sleep?”