he voice for the mad Skipper's. He delayed no longer, but
hastened to the front room and stared out across the churchyard.

The Skipper, with his huge hands uplifted, his fingers working as if
they strove to strangle something invisible in the air, was stumbling
among the graves. His face was red and convulsed with excitement.

"Jack!" he shouted hoarsely, "Jack!"

And he went on desperately towards the sea, pursuing--nothing.

Uniacke looked away from him towards the place where Sir Graham had been
painting. The easel stood there with the canvas resting upon the wooden
pins. On the ground before it was huddled a dark thing.

Uniacke went out from his house. Although he did not know it he walked
very slowly as if he dragged a weight. His feet trod upon the graves. As
he walked he could hear the hoarse shout of the skipper dying away in
the distance towards the sea.

"Jack!"

The voice faded as he gained the churchyard wall.

The dark thing huddled at the foot of the easel was the painter's dead
body. On his discoloured throat there were the marks of fingers.
Mechanically Uniacke turned his eyes from those purple and red marks to
the picture the dead man had been painting. He saw the figure of a boy
in a seaman's jersey and long sea-boots dripping with water. The face of
the boy was pale and swollen. The mouth hung down hideously. The hair
was matted with moisture. Only the eyes were beautiful, for they looked
upward with a rapt and childlike expression.

"He sees the rainbow!" murmured the clergyman.

And he fell forward against the churchyard wall with his face buried in
his arms. The voice of the grey sea was very loud in his ears. Darkness
seemed to close in on him. He had done evil to do good, and the evil he
had done had been in vain. His heart beat hard, and seemed to be in his
throat choking him. And in the darkness he saw a vision of a dirty
child, dressed in rags and a tall paper cap, and pointing upwards.

And he heard a voice, that sounded far off and unearthly, say:

"Look at that there rainbow! Look at that there rainbow!"

He wondered, as a man wonders in a dream, whether the dead painter heard
the voice too, but more clearly--and elsewhere.

"WILLIAM FOSTER."

"WILLIAM FOSTER."

One sad cold day in London, city of sad cold days, a man in a Club had
nothing on earth to do. He had glanced through the morning papers and
found them full of adjectives and empty of news. He had s