acke's heart grew heavier at the words.

In the morning Sir Graham said to him, with a curious calmness:

"I think perhaps you are right, Uniacke. I have been considering your
words, your advice."

"And you will take it?" Uniacke said, with a sudden enormous sense of
gratefulness.

"I think I shall."

"Think--Sir Graham!"

"I'll decide to-night. I must have the day to consider. But--yes, you
are right. That--that horrible appearance. I suppose it must be evoked
by the trickery of my own brain."

"Undoubtedly."

"There can be no other reason for it?"

"None--none."

"Then--then, yes, I had better go from here. But you will come with me?"

"To London?"

"Anywhere--it does not matter."

He looked round him wistfully.

"If I am to leave the island," he said sorrowfully, "it does not matter
where I go."

"To London then," Uniacke said, almost joyously. "I will make my
arrangements."

"To-morrow?"

"To-morrow. Yes. Excuse me for the present. I must run over to the
mainland to settle about the Sunday services. I shall be back in a few
hours."

He went out, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from brain and
heart. So good could come out of evil. Had he not done right to lie? He
began to believe that he had. As he crossed to the mainland he wrapped
himself in warm and comfortable sophistries. The wickedness of
subterfuge vanished now that subterfuge was found to be successful in
attaining a desired end. For that which is successful seldom appears
wholly evil. To-day Uniacke glowed in the fires of his sinfulness.

He transacted his business on the mainland and set out on his return
home, driving through the shallow sea in a high cart. The day, which had
opened in sunshine, was now become grey, very still and depressing. An
intense and brooding silence reigned, broken by the splashing of the
horse's hoofs in the scarcely ruffled water, and by the occasional
peevish cackle of a gull hovering, on purposeless wings, between the
waters and the mists. The low island lay in the dull distance ahead, wan
and deprecatory of aspect, like a thing desiring to be left alone in
the morose embrace of solitude. Uniacke, gazing towards it out of the
midst of the sea, longed ardently for the morrow when Sir Graham would
be caught away from this pale land of terror. He no longer blamed
himself for what he had done. Conscience was asleep. He exulted, and had
a strange feeling that God smiled on him with approval of his s