the beach—she, facing the rolling surf; he, the line of cliffs that seemed to stretch away for miles on either hand.
"Time?" he said again.
"Yes," she said. "You must go away from here at once—to-night. I would have tried to warn you earlier, but I thought the rest you needed after last night was worth the risk of a little delay. I am expecting father. I came down here, you know, after the fire to spend a few weeks with my aunt, and he promised to take a little holiday himself while I was here."
"But he has not come yet?" Varge asked quietly.
"No; not yet—not that I know of," she answered. "He said he was coming to-day or to-morrow, but he did not know just when he could get away."
"The trains," said Varge, "what time do they arrive? The evening train—"
"There are no trains here," she interrupted quickly. "You have to drive nearly seven miles to the nearest station, and I do not know just when they arrive."
Varge allowed a handful of sand to trickle through his fingers before he spoke again.
"I have not thanked you for what you have done," he said finally, in a low voice. "Last night you had only to speak a word and I—I suppose there is a jail even in this little place?"
"They call it a lock-up here," she corrected, with a queer little catch in her voice.
"Yes," he said gravely. "And now you have taken the additional risk of coming to warn me. I had no right to force a further false position upon you—I should have gone—last night."
