out to know if the girl had been found. In the
fewest words, the Sergeant showed them the
evidence of the footmarks, and told them that a fatal
accident must have happened to her. He then
picked out the fisherman from the rest, and put
a question to him, turning about again towards
the sea. "Tell me this," he said. "Could
a boat have taken her off, from that ledge of
rock, where her footmarks stop?"

The fisherman pointed to the rollers tumbling
in on the sand-bank, and to the great waves
leaping up in clouds of foam against the head-
lands on either side of us.

"No boat that ever was built," he answered,
"could have got to her through that."

Sergeant Cuff looked for the last time at the
footmarks on the sand, which the rain was now
fast blurring out.

"There," he said, "is the evidence that she
can't have left this place by land. And here,"
he went on, looking at the fisherman, "is the
evidence that she can't have got away by sea."
He stopped, and considered for a minute. "She
was seen running towards this place, half an
hour before I got here from the house," he said
to Yolland. "Some time has passed since then.
Call it, altogether, an hour ago. How high would
the water be, at that time, on this side of the
rocks?" He pointed to the south side—otherwise,
the side which was not filled up by the
quicksand.

"As the tide makes to-day," said the fisherman,
"there wouldn't have been water enough
to drown a kitten on that side of the Spit, an
hour since."

Sergeant Cuff turned about northward, towards
the quicksand.

"How much on this side?" he asked.

"Less still," answered Yolland. "The Shivering
Sand would have been just awash, and
no more."

The Sergeant turned to me, and said that the
accident must have happened on the side of the
quicksand. My tongue was loosened at that.
"No accident!" I told him. "When she came
to this place, she came, weary of her life, to end
it here."

He started back from me. "How do you
know?" he asked. The rest of them crowded
round. The Sergeant recovered himself
instantly. He put them back from me; he
said I was an old man; he said the discovery
had shaken me; he said, "Let him alone a
little." Then he turned to Yolland, and asked,
"Is there any chance of finding her, when the
tide ebbs again?" And Yolland answered,
"None. What the Sand gets, the Sand
keeps for ever." Having said that, the fisherman
came a step nearer, and addressed himself
to me.

"Mr. Betteredge," he said, " I have a word to
say to you about the young woman's death.
Four foot out, broadwise, along the side of the
Spit, there's a shelf of rock, about half
fathom down under the sand. My question is
—why didn't she strike that? If she slipped,
by accident, from off the Spit, she fell in, where
there's foothold at the bottom, at a depth that
would barely cover her to the waist. She must
have waded out, or jumped out, into the Deeps
beyond—or she wouldn't be missing now. No
accident, sir! The Deeps of the Quicksand
have got her. And they have got her by her
own act."

After that testimony from a man whose
knowledge was to be relied on, the Sergeant was
silent. The rest of us, like him, held our peace.
With one accord, we all turned back up the
slope of the beach.

At the sand-hillocks we were met by the
under-groom, running to us from the house. The
lad is a good lad, and has an honest respect
for me. He handed me a little note, with a decent
sorrow in his face. "Penelope sent me with
this, Mr. Betteredge," he said. "She found it
in Rosanna's room,"

It was her last farewell word to the old man
who had done his best—thank God, always done
his best—to befriend her.

"You have often forgiven me, Mr. Betteredge,
in past times. When you next see the Shivering
Sand, try to forgive me once more. I have
found my grave where my grave was waiting
for me. I have lived, and died, sir, grateful for
your kindness."

There was no more than that. Little as it
was, I hadn't manhood enough to hold up against
it. Your tears come easy, when you're young,
and beginning the world. Your tears come
easy, when you're old, and leaving it. I burst
out crying.

Sergeant Cuff took a step nearer to me—
meaning kindly, I don't doubt. I shrank back
from him. " Don't touch me," I said. " It's
the dread of you, that has driven her to it."

"You are wrong, Mr. Betteredge," he
answered, quietly. "But there will be time
enough to speak of it when we are indoors
again."

I followed the rest of them, with the help of
the groom's arm. Through the driving rain we
went back—to meet the trouble and the terror
that were waiting for us at the house.

CHAPTER XX.

Those in front had spread the news before
us. We found the servants in a state of panic.
As we passed my lady's door, it was thrown
open violently from the inner side. My
mistress came out among us (with Mr. Franklin
following, and trying vainly to compose her),
quite beside herself with the horror of the
thing.

"You are answerable for this!" she cried out,
threatening the Sergeant wildly with her hand.
"Gabriel! give that wretch his money—and
release me from the sight of him!"

The Sergeant was the only one among us
who was fit to cope with her—being the only
one among us who was in possession of himself.

"I am no more answerable for this distressing
calamity, my lady, than you are," he said.