nowing crushed her fingers in his strong,
convulsive grasp.

"Yes," she said, "at eleven to-morrow morning Madeleine and I will be
waiting out on the end of the jetty."

He thought he detected a certain hesitancy in her voice.

"Are you sure you still wish to come?" he said gravely. "I would not
wish you to do anything that would cause you any fear--or any
discomfort. Your sister evidently found it a very trying experience
to-day----"

Claire smiled. Her hand no longer hurt her; her fingers had become quite
numb.

"Afraid?" she said, and there was a little scorn in her voice. And then,
"Ah me! I only wish that there were far more risk than there is about
that which we are going to do together to-morrow." She was in a
dangerous mood, poor soul--the mood that raises a devil in men. But
perhaps her good angel came to help her, for suddenly, "Forgive me," she
said humbly. "You know I did not mean that! Only cowards wish for
death."

And then, looking at him, she averted her eyes, for they showed her
that, if that were so, Dupre was indeed a craven.

"_Au revoir_," she whispered; "_au revoir_ till to-morrow morning."

When half-way through the door, leading on to the lonely stretch of
down, she turned round suddenly. "I do not want you to bring any ices
for me to-morrow."

"I never thought of doing so," he said simply. And the words pleased
Claire as much as anything just then could pleasure her, for they proved
that her friend did not class her in his mind with those women who fear
discomfort more than danger.

It had been her own wish to go out with Commander Dupre for his last
cruise in northern waters. She had not had the courage to deny herself
this final glimpse of him--they were never to meet again after
to-morrow--in his daily habit as he lived.

II

At nine o'clock the next morning Jacques de Wissant stood in his wife's
boudoir.

It was a strange and beautiful room, likely to linger in the memory of
those who knew its strange and beautiful mistress.

The walls were draped with old Persian shawls, the furniture was of red
Chinese lacquer, a set acquired in the East by some Norman sailing man
unnumbered years ago, and bought by Claire de Wissant out of her own
slender income not long after her marriage.

Pale blue and faded yellow silk cushions softened the formal angularity
of the wide cane-seated couch and low, square chairs. There was a deep
crystal bowl of midsummer flowering roses on the ta