straight out, without any show of fence or shadow of
concealment:

"It was my mistake. I am glad to know that I did you an injustice. You
are my friend, are you not?"

"I believe I have the right to claim that title," I answered.

"Then what you ask is granted. Come." She put her hand boldly into mine.
I grasped the slender fingers, saying:

"Yes, Natalie, some day I will prove to you that I am your friend."

"The proof is unnecessary," she replied, in a low sad voice.

We started for the sea. Not a word was spoken on the way. Nor did our
eyes meet. We were in a strange position. It was this: the man who had
vowed he was the woman's friend--who did not intend to shirk the proof
of his promise, and never did gainsay it--meant to ask the woman,
before the day was over, to clear herself of knowingly associating with
a gang of scientific murderers. The woman had vaguely divined his
purpose, and could not clear herself.

When we arrived at the shore we occupied ourselves inconsequently. We
hunted little fishes until Natalie's dainty boots were dripping. We
examined quaint denizens of the shallow water until her gloves were
spoilt. We sprang from rock to rock and evaded the onrush of the foaming
waves. We made aqueducts for inter-communication between deep pools. We
basked in the sunshine, and listened to the deep moan of the sounding
sea, and the solemn murmur of the shells. We drank in the deep breath of
the ocean, and for a brief space we were like happy children.

The end came soon to this ephemeral happiness. It was only one of those
bright coins snatched from the niggard hand of Time which must always be
paid back with usurious charges. We paid with cruel interest.

Standing on a flat rock side by side, I nerved myself to ask this girl
the same question I had asked her friend, Edith Metford, how much she
knew of the extraordinary and preposterous Society--as I still tried to
consider it--which Herbert Brande had founded. She looked so frank, so
refined, so kind, I hardly dared to put my brutal question to an
innocent girl, whom I had seen wince at the suffering of a maimed bird,
and pale to the lips at the death-cry of a rabbit. This time there was
no possibility of untoward consequence in the question save to
myself--for surely the girl was safe from her own brother. And I myself
preferred to risk the consequences rather than endure longer the thought
that she belonged voluntarily to a vile murder club. Yet t