“Good-night, Dr. Brayle!” I said.

He lifted his brooding eyes and looked at me.

“Good-night!  If I have annoyed you by my scepticism in certain matters, you must make allowances for temperament and pardon me.  I should be sorry if you bore me any ill-will—­”

What a curious note of appeal there was in his voice!  All at once it seemed to me that he was asking me to forgive him for that long-ago murder which I had seen reflected in a vision!—­and my blood grew suddenly heated with an involuntary wave of deep resentment.

“Dr. Brayle,” I said,—­“pray do not trouble yourself to think any more about me.  Our ways will always be apart, and we shall probably never see each other again.  It really does not matter to you in the least what my feeling may be with regard to you,—­it can have no influence on either your present or your future.  Friendships cannot be commanded.”

“You will not say,” he interrupted me—­“that you have no dislike of me?”

I hesitated—­then spoke frankly.

“I will not,”—­I answered—­“because I cannot!”

For one instant our eyes met—­then came something between us that suggested an absolute and irretrievable loss—­“Not yet!” he murmured—­“Not yet!” and with a forced smile, he bowed and allowed me to pass to my cabin.  I was glad to be there—­glad to be alone—­ and overwhelmed as I was by the consciousness that the memories of my soul had been too strong for me to resist, I was thankful that I had had the courage to express my invincible opposition to one who had, as I seemed instinctively to realise, been guilty of an unrepented crime.

That night I slept dreamlessly, and the next morning before seven o’clock I had left the luxurious ‘Diana’ for the ordinary passenger steamer plying from Portree to Glasgow.  Mr. Harland kept his promise of seeing me off, and expressed his opinion that I was very foolish to travel with a crowd of tourists and other folk, when I might have had the comfort and quiet of his yacht all the way; but he could not move me from my resolve, though in a certain sense I was sorry to say good-bye to him.

“You must write to us as soon as you get home,”—­he said, at parting—­“A letter will find us this week at Gairloch—­I shall cruise about a bit longer.”

I made no reply for the moment.  He had no idea that I was not going home at all, nor did I intend to tell him.

“You shall hear from me as soon as possible,”—­I said at last, evasively—­” I shall be very busy for a time—­”

He laughed.

“Oh, I know!  You are always busy!  Will you ever get tired, I wonder?”

I smiled.  “I hope not!”