ath flowed across the waters to the base of the crags. He
looked over the railing and a glittering object caught his eye. The
revolver, in all probability. Undoubtedly the ebbing tide had left it
dry. And if the weapon, thrown from Koltsoff's window, was within
reach, why not the control? Armitage's face burned. It must be
somewhere down there. If he could find it, much loss of time would be
prevented. But more--if it _could_ be found, he and not Koltsoff must
be the one to recover it.

At his feet the cliffs were precipitous. He searched for the steps
which he remembered were cut in the rock somewhere in the vicinity.
But it was too dark; he could not find them. He must wait until the
first light of dawn showed him his ground. It would save him, perhaps,
a broken neck and of course simplify his search. He sat down on the
grass to wait, lighting a cigar which he had taken from the
smoking-room. Dancing had resumed. The measured cadence of the music
flowed from the windows, and lulled by it, fatigued with all the
excitement of the evening, his cigar waned and died, his head fell on
the turf. He slept. He dreamed that he was dancing with Anne and that
Koltsoff, with Sara Van Valkenberg as a partner, persisted in stepping
upon his toes. Even in that ballroom with Mrs. Wellington's Gorgon
eyes upon him the situation was getting unbearable. He hated making a
scene, nevertheless--He woke with a start. The sound of wheels
grinding through the gravel of the driveway brought him to his feet.
It was a strange sound, eerie, uncanny. The darkness had gone, and the
moon. The world was all gray; objects showed dim and ghostly; the
ocean was shrouded in mist, and the wind from the face of it was
clammy, heavy with salt. Moisture was dripping from the leaves, the
trees, and shrubbery. The sound of laughter came from somewhere. For
a moment Armitage stood irresolute, knowing that his heart was heavy
and that the new day would bring no light for him.

Spiritlessly he walked to the brink of the cliffs and saw the steps
upon the far side of the curve. Thither he slowly made his way.
Spirals of mist were arising from below as from a caldron--old
Newporters, in truth, had always known of it as the Devil's
Caldron--hiding the wet, slippery fangs over or among which the swish
of waters was unceasing.

As he reached the bottom he paused for an instant and then as his eyes
became accustomed to the pallid gloom, he loo