The truth, the whole horrible certainty of it, struck me as one great wave, and rushed over my bent head as with the whirl and roar of many waters.  “Dead Man’s Rock!” “Dead Man’s Rock!” it sang in my ears as it swept me off my feet for a moment and passed, leaving me to sink and battle in the gulf of bottomless despair.  And then, as if I really drowned, my past life with all its follies, mistakes, wrecked hopes and baseless dreams, shot swiftly past in one long train.  Again I saw my mother’s patient, anxious smile, my father’s drowned face with the salt drops trickling from his golden hair, the struggle on the rock, the inquest, the awful face at the window, the corpses of my parents stretched side by side upon the bed, the scene in the gambling-hell with all its white and desperate faces, Claire, my lost love, the river, the theatre, Tom’s death, and that last dreadful scene, Francesca with the dark blood soaking her white dress and trickling down upon the boards.  I tried to put my hands before my eyes, but the cords held and cut my arms like burning steel.  Then in a flash I seemed to be striding madly up and down Oxford Street, while still in front of me danced and flew the yellow woman, her every diamond flashing in the gas-light, her cold black eyes, as they turned and mocked me, blazing marsh-lights of doom.  Then came the ringing of many bells in my ears, mingled with silvery laughter, as though the fiends were ringing jubilant peals within the pit.

Presently the sights grew dim and died away, but the chiming laughter still continued.

I looked up.  It was Colliver laughing, and his face was that of an arch-devil.

“It does me good to see you,” he explained; “oh, yes, it is honey to my soul.  Fool! and a thousand times fool! that ever I should have lived to triumph thus over you and your accursed house!”

Once more his voice grew shrill and his eyes flashed; once more he collected himself.

“You shall hear it out,” he said.  “Look here!” and he pulled a greasy book from his pocket.  “Here is a nautical almanack.  What day is it?  December 23rd, or rather some time in the morning of December 24th, Christmas Eve.  On the evening of December 24th it is full moon, and dead low water at Falmouth about 11.30 p.m.  Fate (do you believe in fate, Mr. Trenoweth?) could not have chosen the time better.  In something under twenty hours one of us will have his hands upon the treasure.  Which will it be, eh?  Which will it be?”

Well I knew which it would be, and the knowledge was bitter as gall.

“A merry Christmas, Mr. Jasper Trenoweth!  Peace on earth and good-will—­You will bear no malice by that time.  So a merry Christmas, and a merry Christmas-box! likewise the compliments of the season, and a happy New Year to you!  Where are you going to spend Christmas, Mr. Trenoweth—­eh?  I am thinking of passing it by the sea.  You will, perhaps, try the sea too, only you will be in it.  Thames runs swiftly when it has a corpse for cargo.  Oho!