moment transformed his
appearance. He quickly recovered, however.

"I may still," he concluded, moving towards the door, "be forced to
present myself here in another capacity."

CHAPTER XXII

The confinement of the house, after the departure of her unwelcome
visitor, stifled Philippa. Attired in a mackintosh, with a scarf around
her head, she made her way on to the quay, and, clinging to the railing,
dragged herself along to where the fishermen were gathered together in a
little group. The storm as yet showed no signs of abatement.

"Has anything been heard of Ben Oates' boat?" she enquired.

An old fisherman pointed seawards.

"There she comes, ma'am, up on the crest of that wave; look!"

"Will she get in?" Philippa asked eagerly.

There were varied opinions, expressed in indistinct mutterings.

"She's weathering it grand," the fisherman to whom she had first spoken,
declared. "We've a line ready yonder, and we're reckoning on getting 'em
ashore all right. Lucky for Ben that the gentleman along with him is a
fine sailor. Look at that, mum!" he added in excitement. "See the way he
brought her head round to it, just in time. Boys, they'll come in on the
next one!"

One by one the sailors made their way to the very edge of the
wave-splashed beach. There were a few more minutes of breathless
anxiety. Then, after the boat had disappeared completely from sight,
hidden by a huge grey wall of sea, she seemed suddenly to climb to the
top of it, to hover there, to become mixed up with the spray and the
surf and a great green mass of waters, and then finally, with a harsh
crash of timbers and a shout from the fishermen, to be flung high and
dry upon the stones. Philippa, clutching the iron railing, saw for a
moment nothing but chaos. Her knees became weak. She was unable to move.
There was a queer dizziness in her ears. The sound of voices sounded
like part of an unreal nightmare. Then she was aware of a single figure
climbing the steps towards her. There was blood trickling down his face
from the wound in the forehead, and he was limping slightly.

"Mr. Lessingham!" she called out, as he reached the topmost step.

He took an eager step towards her.

"Philippa!" he exclaimed. "Why, what are you doing here?"

"I was frightened," she faltered. "Are you hurt?"

"Not in the least," he assured her. "We had a rough sail home, that's
all, and that fellow Oates drank himself half unconscious. Come along,
let me he