; but the wind had quickened, and the
waves rolled in briskly, with white, silvery foam marking their
progress.

The Chain Pier stood out quite clear and distinct in the moonlight; very
fair and shapely it looked. Then I went to sleep and dreamed of the
white, beautiful, desperate face--of the woman who had, I believed,
thrown her love-letters into the sea. The wind grew rougher and the sea
grew angry during the night; when at times I woke from my sleep I could
hear them. Ah! long before this the love-letters had been destroyed--had
been torn by the swift waves; the faded flowers and all the pretty
love-tokens were done to death in the brisk waters. I wondered if, in
thought, that beautiful, desperate woman would go back to that spot on
the Chain Pier.

The morning following dawned bright and calm; there was a golden
sunlight and a blue sea; why the color of the water should change so
greatly, I could not think, but change it did. I have seen it clear as
an emerald, and I have seen it blue as the lakes and seas of Italy. This
morning it wore a blue dress, and a thousand, brilliants danced on its
broad, sweet bosom. Already there were a number of people on the
promenade; both piers looked beautiful, and were full of life and
activity. It must have been some kind of holiday, although I forget for
what the flags were flying, and there was a holiday look about the town.
I thought I would walk for ten minutes before my breakfast. I went
toward the Chain Pier, drawn by the irresistible attraction of the face
I had seen there last evening.

It struck me that there was an unusual number of people about the Chain
Pier; quite a crowd had collected at the gate. People were talking to
each other in an excited fashion. I saw one or two policemen, and I came
to the conclusion that some accident or other had happened on the pier.
I went up to the crowd--two or three boatmen stood leaning over the
rail.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Matter, sir?" replied one; "there is matter enough. There must have
been murder, or something very much like it, done on that pier last
night."

"Murder?" I cried, with a beating heart; "do not use such a horrible
word."

"It is a horrible thing, sir, but it has been done," replied the
boatman.

CHAPTER III.

Why the word "murder" struck me with such a horror I cannot tell. I
stood looking at the old boatman like one struck with dismay. I was on
the point of saying that it was quit