at would be the sequel? Uniacke
thought of the doctor's letter. He felt as if a net were closing round
him, as if there could be no escape from some tragic finale. And he felt
too, painfully, as if a tragic finale were all that he--he, clergyman,
liar, trickster,--deserved. His conscience, in presence of a shadow,
woke again, and found a voice, and told him that evil could not prevail
for good, that a lie could not twist the course of things from paths of
sorrow to paths of joy. Did not each lie call aloud to danger, saying,
"Approach! approach!" Did not each subterfuge stretch out arms beckoning
on some nameless end? He seemed to hear soft footsteps. He was horribly
afraid and wished that, in the beginning of his acquaintance with Sir
Graham, he had dared consequence and spoken truth. Now he felt like a
man feebly fighting that conqueror, the Inevitable, and he went in fear.
Yet he struggled still.

"Sir Graham," he said, on the following day, "forgive me, but I feel it
my duty to urge you not to let that poor fellow watch you at work. It is
not safe. I do not think it is safe. I have a strong feeling that--that
the shock of seeing--"

"Himself?"

"Exactly!--might be dangerous."

"To him?"

"Or to you. That is my feeling. Possibly to you. He is not sane, and
though he seems harmless enough--"

"I'm fully prepared to take the risk," said Sir Graham abruptly, and
with a return of his old suspicious expression. "I'm not afraid of the
man."

He got up and went out. The mere thought of danger, in his condition,
warmed and excited him. He had resolved before actually starting upon
his picture to make some _plein air_ studies of the islanders. Therefore
he now made his way into the village, engaged a fisher-lad to stand to
him, returned to the rectory for his easel and set it up just beyond the
churchyard wall. He posed the shamefaced and giggling boy and set to
work. Uniacke was writing in the small bow-window, or pretending to
write. Often he looked out, watching the painter, waiting, with a keen
anxiety, to know whether the interest shown in his work by the Skipper
was only the passing whim of insanity, or whether it was something more
permanent, more threatening perhaps.

The painter worked. The sailor posed, distending his rough cheeks with
self-conscious laughter. Uniacke watched. It seemed that the Skipper was
not coming. Uniacke felt a sense of relief. He got up from his
writing-table at last, intending to