"Beaton," said I, "we have not known each other long, but I recognise a
man when I see him, and I am disposed to be frank with you. I am in
trouble. My affections are engaged, deeply engaged, in a quarter where I
find some mystery. You have helped make it." (Here a gesture escaped
him.) "I allude to the story you related the other morning of the young
girl you had seen hanging over the verge of the cliff, with every
appearance of intending to throw herself over."
"It was as a dream I related that," he gravely remarked.
"That I am aware of. But it was no dream to me, Beaton. I fear I know
that young girl; I also fear that I know what drove her into
contemplating so rash an act. The conversation just held in the
card-room should enlighten you. Beaton, am I wrong?"
The feeling I could not suppress trembled in my tones. He may have been
sensitive to it, or he may have been simply good-natured. Whatever the
cause, this is what he said in reply:
"It was a dream. Remember that I insist upon its being a dream. But some
of its details are very clear in my mind. When I stumbled upon this
dream-maiden in the moonlight her face was turned from me toward the
ocean, and I did not see her features then or afterwards. Startled by
some sound I made, she crouched, drew back, and fled to cover. That
cover, I have good reason to believe, was this very house."