cident. But what I wished to tell you was, that as it was said
that no one would go, I went. They said it was impossible; but it was
not. I thank you for listening to me a moment. You can understand,
madam, that if I went there, it was not with the thought of displeasing
you. This is a thing, besides, of old date. I know that you are in
haste. If there was time, if we could talk about this, you might perhaps
remember. But this is all useless now. The history of it goes back to a
day when there was snow upon the ground. And then on one occasion that I
passed you, I thought that you looked kindly on me. This is how it was.
With regard to last night, I had not had time to go to my home. I came
from my labour; I was all torn and ragged; I startled you, and you
fainted. I was to blame; people do not come like that to strangers'
houses; I ask your forgiveness. This is nearly all I had to say. You are
about to sail. You will have fine weather; the wind is in the east.
Farewell. You will not blame me for troubling you with these things.
This is the last minute."

"I am thinking of the trunk you spoke of," replied Deruchette. "Why do
you not keep it for your wife, when you marry?"

"It is most likely, madam," replied Gilliatt, "that I shall never
marry."

"That would be a pity," said Deruchette; "you are so good."

And Deruchette smiled. Gilliatt returned her smile.

Then he assisted her to step into the boat.

In less than a quarter of an hour afterwards Caudray and Deruchette were
aboard the _Cashmere_ in the roads.

V

THE GREAT TOMB

Gilliatt walked along the water-side, passed rapidly through St. Peter's
Port, and then turned towards St. Sampson by the seashore. In his
anxiety to meet no one whom he knew, he avoided the highways now filled
with foot-passengers by his great achievement.

For a long time, as the reader knows, he had had a peculiar manner of
traversing the country in all parts without being observed. He knew the
bye-paths, and favoured solitary and winding routes; he had the shy
habits of a wild beast who knows that he is disliked, and keeps at a
distance. When quite a child, he had been quick to feel how little
welcome men showed in their faces at his approach, and he had gradually
contracted that habit of being alone which had since become an instinct.

He passed through the Esplanade, then by the Salerie. Now and then he
turned and looked behind him at the _Cashmere_ in the roads, which