He drew a little nearer to her.  She moved instantly away.

“I am glad,” she said, “that our party breaks up to-morrow.  When we meet again, Lawrence, it must be differently.  I am parting with a great deal that has been precious to me, but it must be.  It is quite clear.”

“I made no promise!” he cried, hoarsely.  “I did not mean—­”

She stopped him with a swift glance.

“Never mind that.  You and I are not of the race of people who shrink from their duty, or fear to do what is right.  Your wife’s face taught me mine.  Your conscience will tell you yours.”

“You mean?” he exclaimed.

“You know what I mean.  We shall meet again, of course, but this is none the less our farewell.  No, don’t touch me!  Not even my hand, Lawrence.  Don’t make it any harder.  Let us go in.”

But he did not move.  The place where they stood was deserted.  From below the white spray came leaping up almost to their faces as the waves beat against the wall.  Behind them the town was black and deserted, save where a few lights gleamed out from the hotel.  She shivered a little, and drew her cloak around her.

“Come,” she said, “I am getting cold and cramped.”

He walked by her side to the hotel.  At the foot of the steps she left him.

“We shall meet again in London,” she said, quietly.  “Don’t be too hard upon your old friends when you take your seat.  Remember that you were once one of us.”

She looked round and waved her hand as she disappeared.  He caught a glimpse of her face as she passed underneath the hanging lamp—­the face of a tired woman suddenly grown old.  With a little groan he made his way into the hotel, and slowly ascended the stairs.

Early the next morning Mannering left Bonestre, and in twenty-four hours he was back again, summoned by a telegram which had met him in London.  It seemed to him that everybody at the station and about the hotel regarded him with shocked and respectful sympathy.  Hester, looking like a ghost, took him at once to her room.  He was haggard and weary with rapid travelling, and he sank into a chair.

“Tell me—­the worst!” he said.

“She started with Mr. Englehall about mid-day,” Hester said.  “They had luggage, but I explained that he was going to Paris, she was coming back by train.  At two o’clock we were rung up on the telephone.  Their brake had snapped going down the hill by St. Entuiel, and the chauffeur—­he is mad now—­but they think he lost his nerve.  They were dashed into a tree, and—­they were both dead—­when they were got out from the wreck.”

“God in Heaven!” Mannering murmured, white to the lips.

There was a silence between them.  Mannering had covered his head with his hands.  Hester tried once or twice to speak, but the tears were streaming from her eyes.  She had the air of having more to say.  The white horror of tragedy was still in her face.