“But,” broke in Leonie with a gleam of hope, “but I have father’s money coming to me.  I’m not quite sure how much it is, but you can have it—­all!”

“It’s two thousand pounds down for yourself, and two hundred and fifty a year in trust for your children—­to be given you on your wedding day.”

“Oh!”

It was just a little pitiful exclamation as the girl realised the net which was closing about her feet, but from the meshes of which she made a last desperate effort to extricate herself.

“I think I—­see—­a way,” she said slowly.  “Yes—­listen—­this terrible mystery that surrounds me, this—­this curse which seems to bring disaster or pain to everyone I love, simply makes life not worth living—­so if—­if I make a will in your favour, Auntie, dear, and go for a swim at Morte Point where the cross currents are—­it will——­”

But Susan Hetth interrupted violently, horror-stricken at the suggestion made indifferently by the girl she loved as far as she was capable of loving.

“How is suicide going to help?” she demanded shrilly.  “There would be an inquest, every bit of gossip, everything you had ever done would be brought to light; the verdict would be insanity——­”

“Oh, Auntie!”

Driven to desperation and without finesse Susan Hetth flung down her trump card.

“But—­I—­I haven’t told you the—­the worst,” she stammered, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, and peering from behind it at Leonie who, wearily pushing the hair off her forehead, stood apathetically waiting.

“That—­that man”—­she jerked her head at the mantelpiece—­“has—­has a hold on me!”

“What—–­do you mean Sir Walter—­do you owe him money?” Leonie stared in amazement as she spoke.

“Oh, no—­it’s worse!” came the reply, followed by a curtailed but sufficiently dramatic recital of the past indiscretion, to which Leonie listened spellbound.

“And you do believe that it was just a bit of bad luck, and that there was nothing really wrong in it all, don’t you, dear,” insisted the woman who, like ninety-nine per cent of humans, forgot the real tragedy of the moment in the recital of her own pettifogging escapade.

“Absolutely,” replied Leonie flatly.

“And you do see the necessity of giving in, now that he has threatened me with exposure if you refuse him when he proposes, don’t you, dear?”

“Absolutely,” replied Leonie for the second time.

There followed long minutes of silence which the swirl of the waters alone dared to break, and then the girl spoke.

“My life,” she said very softly to herself; “my lovely, beautiful free life done.  The wind, and the birds, and the sea—­Auntie—­oh, Auntie—­Auntie!”

And she turned and flung herself against the wall with her face crushed into her upstretched arms.  “Think of it,” she whispered hoarsely, “think of it, my youth, my spirit, my body given into that old man’s keeping.  I who have kept my thoughts, my lips, my eyes for my mate that was to be; I who have longed for his love, for the hours and the days, and the months, and the years, even unto death, with him.  How could——­”