He extended his hand.  “No fear!  I haven’t forgotten a single one of you in the world.  Some gave me more than money—­but I am a beggar now—­and you women always had to get me out of my scrapes.”

He swaggered up to the parlour window, and in the dim light filtering through the blind, looked at the coin lying in his palm.  It was a half-sovereign.  He slipped it into his pocket.  She stood a little on one side, with her head drooping, as if wounded; with her arms hanging passive by her side, as if dead.

“You can’t buy me in,” he said, “and you can’t buy yourself out.”

He set his hat firmly with a little tap, and next moment she felt herself lifted up in the powerful embrace of his arms.  Her feet lost the ground; her head hung back; he showered kisses on her face with a silent and over-mastering ardour, as if in haste to get at her very soul.  He kissed her pale cheeks, her hard forehead, her heavy eyelids, her faded lips; and the measured blows and sighs of the rising tide accompanied the enfolding power of his arms, the overwhelming might of his caresses.  It was as if the sea, breaking down the wall protecting all the homes of the town, had sent a wave over her head.  It passed on; she staggered backwards, with her shoulders against the wall, exhausted, as if she had been stranded there after a storm and a shipwreck.

She opened her eyes after awhile; and listening to the firm, leisurely footsteps going away with their conquest, began to gather her skirts, staring all the time before her.  Suddenly she darted through the open gate into the dark and deserted street.

“Stop!” she shouted.  “Don’t go!”

And listening with an attentive poise of the head, she could not tell whether it was the beat of the swell or his fateful tread that seemed to fall cruelly upon her heart.  Presently every sound grew fainter, as though she were slowly turning into stone.  A fear of this awful silence came to her—­worse than the fear of death.  She called upon her ebbing strength for the final appeal: 

“Harry!”

Not even the dying echo of a footstep.  Nothing.  The thundering of the surf, the voice of the restless sea itself, seemed stopped.  There was not a sound—­no whisper of life, as though she were alone and lost in that stony country of which she had heard, where madmen go looking for gold and spurn the find.

Captain Hagberd, inside his dark house, had kept on the alert.  A window ran up; and in the silence of the stony country a voice spoke above her head, high up in the black air—­the voice of madness, lies and despair—­the voice of inextinguishable hope.  “Is he gone yet—­that information fellow?  Do you hear him about, my dear?”

She burst into tears.  “No! no! no!  I don’t hear him any more,” she sobbed.

He began to chuckle up there triumphantly.  “You frightened him away.  Good girl.  Now we shall be all right.  Don’t you be impatient, my dear.  One day more.”