hrough the
cone-laden boughs to show him the rough path; and he had been there when
the tree-tops had bent beneath the shrieking wind, when the black clouds
had been flying over his head, and the roar of the angry sea had filled
the air with thunder. And these things had stirred him--one of nature's
sons--in many ways. Yet none of them had sent the warm blood coursing
through his veins like quicksilver, or had stolen through his senses
with such sweet heart-stirring impetuosity as did the presence of this
tall, fair girl, walking serenely by his side in thoughtful silence.
Once, when too near the edge of the cliff, she put her foot on a
fir-cone and stumbled, and the touch of her hand, as he caught hold of
it to steady her, sent a thrill of keen, exquisite pleasure through his
whole frame. He held it perhaps a little longer than necessary, and she
let him. For the moment she had lost the sense of physical touch, and
the firm grasp of his fingers upon hers seemed to her, in a certain
sense, only an analogy to the sudden sympathy which had sprung up
between them. Even when realization came, she drew her hand away gently,
without anger, without undue haste even. One glance into his face at
that moment would have told her everything; the whole horror of the
situation would have flashed in upon her, and she would have been
overwhelmed. But she did not look, and long before they had come to the
end of the path the passionate light had died out from his eyes, and had
left no trace behind. Once more he was only a plain, sad-looking man,
hollow-eyed and hollow-cheeked, with bent head and stooping frame.

CHAPTER VIII

DID YOU KILL SIR GEOFFREY KYNASTON?

At the extremity of the plantation they came to a small wicket-gate
opening out on to the cliff top. From here there was a path inland to
the Court, whilst Falcon's Nest was straight in front of them. At the
parting of the ways they hesitated, for it seemed necessary that they
should part.

And whilst they looked around a little dazzled, having just emerged from
the darkness of the plantation, they were conscious of a new glory in
the heavens. Far away across the moorland the autumn sun had shot its
last rays over the level plain and sea, and had sunk quietly to rest. It
was not one of Turner's wild sunsets. There were no banks of angry
clouds full of lurid coloring, flashing their glory all over the western
sky. But in a different fashion it was equally beautiful. L