John Harston's murdered daughter."

"It was the girl herself," said Ezra. He had been panic-stricken at the
moment, but had had time during their flight to realize the situation.
"We have made a pretty botch of the whole thing."

"The girl herself!" cried Girdlestone in bewilderment. "For Heaven's
sake, don't mock me! Who was it that we carried through the wood and
laid upon the rails?"

"Who was it? Why that jealous jade, Rebecca Taylforth, of course, who
must have read my note and come out in the other's cloak and hat to hear
what I had to say to her. The cursed fool!"

"The wrong woman!" Girdlestone muttered with the same vacant look upon
his face. "All for nothing, then--for nothing!"

"Don't stand mumbling to yourself there," cried Ezra, catching his
father's arm and half dragging him along the beach. "Don't you
understand that there's a hue and cry out after you, and that we'll be
hung if we are taken. Wake up and exert yourself. The gallows would be
a nice end to all your preaching and praying, wouldn't it?"

They hurried along together down the beach, ploughing their way through
the loose shingle and tripping over the great mats of seaweed which had
been cast up in the recent gale. The wind was still so great that they
had to lower their heads and to put their shoulders against it, while
the salt spray caused their eyes to smart and tingled on their lips.

"Where are you taking me, my son?" asked the old man once.

"To the only chance we have of safety. Come on, and ask no questions."

Through the murkiness of the night they saw a single light flickering
dimly ahead of them. This was evidently the goal at which Ezra was
aiming. As they toiled on it grew larger and brighter, until it
resolved itself into the glare of a lamp shining through a small
diamond-paned window. Girdlestone recognized the place now. It was the
hut of a fisherman named Sampson, who lived a mile or more from Claxton.
He remembered having his attention attracted to the place by the curious
nature of the building, which was constructed out of the remnants of a
Norwegian barque stranded some years before. The thatch which covered
it and the windows and door cut in the sides gave it a curiously hybrid
appearance, and made it an object of interest to sightseers in those
parts. Sampson was the owner of a fair-sized fishing-boat, which he
worked with his eldest son, and which was said to yield him a decent
livelihood.