ENVOI.

A tiny sea-side village, red roofs and grey church tower nestling
between the slope of great hills clothed with velvety green woods, and
the uplands beyond brilliant with yellow gorse and crimson heather. And
the triangle of sunlit sea just glimpsed, is blue as the sky above.

Up the single street two persons are walking, and the summer loveliness
of the fair English scene is something of a contrast to the vaster, but
not less beautiful, landscape in which we last saw these two framed; for
we have seen them before.

Now they gain the modest, but clean and comfortable farm-house lodgings
overlooking the village and the sea, and which is nearly the only
accommodation so out-of-the-way a place can offer.

"Post in," says Lalante, womanlike eagerly making for several letters
spread out upon the table. "Why here's one from father, forwarded on.
Oh I am glad. He hasn't written for quite a long time."

"Getting homesick, child?"

"Darling, you know I'm not. Still I shan't be sorry to be duly
installed at dear old Seven Kloofs."

"But there are no shops."

"Don't tease. Oh, but--" and her eyes grew soft--"if you only knew how
he appreciated what you did, I mean that offer you made him. He says it
was the saving of him."

"In the words I used to him on a somewhat similar occasion--`shut up',"
rejoins Wyvern, stopping her mouth with a kiss. "Here's a yarn from
Fleetwood! Now we'll each see what each says."

"Joe's news is good," he goes on, glancing down the sheet. "He's
working the oracle fine about the plunder, but he says that nearly six
months of England, and that mostly London, is about enough for any
self-respecting up-country man, and wants to go back again when we do."

"Why of course," absently and not immediately. Then with a start. "How
dreadful! Oh how dreadful!"

"What is?"

"Mr Warren's dead!"

"No! Poor chap. What did he die of?"

"He committed suicide. Look. You read it out. I can't," and Lalante
looked very pale and distressed as she handed over her father's letter.

"You'll probably have seen about poor Warren's death in the English
papers--" it went on--"but in case you haven't, he was found in his
sitting room, shot through the heart three weeks ago. All the
evidence went to show that it was a case of suicide, even if he hadn't
left a letter to say so. But it gave no reason, and at the adjourned
enquiry--held the day before yesterday--nothing could be