“Not difficult to find!”—­rejoined the first voice that had spoken, “Most women are blind where their affections are concerned.”

“Or their vanity!”

Another silence.  I rose from my bed, shivering with a sense of sudden cold, and threw on my dressing-gown.  Going to the window, I looked out on the fair expanse of the calm sea, silver-grey in the early dawn.  How still and peaceful it looked!—­what a contrast to the storm of doubt and terror that was beginning to rage within my own heart!  Hush!  The voices began again.

“Well, it’s all over now, and his theory of perpetuating life at pleasure has come to an untimely end.  Where did the yacht go down?”

“Off Armadale, in Skye.”

For a moment I could not realise what had been said and tried to repeat both question and answer—­’Where did the yacht go down?’ ’Off Armadale, in Skye.’

What did it mean?—­The yacht?  Gone down?  What yacht?  They were talking of Santoris—­of Rafel, my beloved!—­My lover, lost through ages of time and space, and found again only to be once more separated from me through my own fault—­my own fault!—­that was the horror of it—­a horror I could not contemplate without an almost maddening anguish.  I ran to the wall through which I had heard the voices talking and pressed my ear against it, murmuring to myself—­ “Oh no!—­it is not possible!—­not possible!  God would not be so cruel!” For many minutes I heard nothing—­and I was rapidly losing patience and self-control, when at last I heard the conversation resumed,—­“He should never have risked his life in such a vessel”—­ said one of the voices in a somewhat gentler tone—­“It was a wonderfully clever contrivance, but the danger of all that electricity was obvious.  In a storm it would have no chance.”

“That has been thoroughly proved,”—­answered another voice—­“Just half a gale of wind with a dash of thunder and lightning, and down it went, with every soul on board.”

“Santoris might have saved himself.  He was a fine swimmer.”

“Was he?”

Another silence.  I thought my head would have burst with its aching agony of suspense,—­my eyes were burning like hot coals with a weight of unshed tears.  I felt that I could have battered down the wall between me and those torturing voices in my feverish desire to know the worst—­the worst at all costs!  If Rafel were dead—­but no!- -he could not die!  He could not actually perish—­but he could be parted from me as he had been parted before—­and I—­I should be alone again—­alone as I had been all my life!  And in my foolish pride I had voluntarily severed myself from him!—­was this my punishment?  More talking began, and I listened, like a criminal listening to a cruel sentence.

“Aselzion will tell her, of course.  Rather a difficult business!—­as he will have to admit that his teachings are not infallible.  And on the whole there was something very taking about Santoris—­I’m sorry he’s gone.  But he would only have fooled the woman had he lived.”