‘Certumly,’ said Winifred, giving, with a forced laugh, the lisp with which that word had been given on a now famous occasion.

’Well, Winifred, I told you that I feel an interest in precious stones, and have some knowledge of them.  There are certain stones to which I have the greatest antipathy:  diamonds and rubies are the chief of these.

Now I want you to promise that diamonds and rubies and beryls shall never touch these fingers, these dear fingers, Winnie, which are mine, you know; they are mine now,’ and I drew the smooth nails slowly along my lips.  ‘You are mine now, every bit.’

‘Every bit,’ said Winifred, but she looked perplexed.

She saw, however, by my face that, for some reason or other, I was deeply in earnest.  She gave the promise.  And I knew at least that those fingers would not be polluted, come what would.  As to her going to London with the spoil, I knew how to prevent that.

But what course of action was I now to take?  At this very moment perhaps Winifred’s father was violating my father’s tomb, unless indeed the crime might even yet he prevented.  There was one hope, however.  The drunken scoundrel whose daughter was my world I knew to be a procrastinator in everything.  His crime might, even yet, be only a crime in intent; and, if so, I could prevent it easily enough.  My first business was to hurry to the church, and, if not yet too late, keep guard over the tomb.  But to achieve this I must get quit of Winifred without a moment’s delay.  Now Winifred’s most direct path to the cottage was the path I myself must take to the church, the gangway behind Flinty Point.  Yet she must not pass the church with me, lest an encounter with her father should take place.  There was thus but one course open.  I must induce her to take the gangway behind the other point of the cove; and how was this to be compassed?  That was what I was racking my brain about.

‘Winifred,’ I said at last, as we sat and looked at the sea, ’I begin to fear we must be moving.’

She started up, vexed that the hint to move had come from me.

‘The fact is,’ I said, ’I particularly want to go into the old church.’

‘Into the old church to-night?’ said Winifred, with a look of astonishment and alarm that I could not understand.

’Yes; something was left undone there this afternoon at the funeral, and I must go at once.  But why do you look so alarmed?’

‘Oh, don’t go into the old church to-night,’ said Winifred.

I stood and looked at her, puzzled and strangely disturbed.

‘Henry,’ said she, ’I know you will think me very foolish, but I have not yet got over the fright that shriek gave me, the shriek we both heard the moment before the landslip.  That shriek was not a noise made by the rending of trees, Henry.  No, no; we both know better than that, Henry.’

I gave a start; for, try as I would, I had not really succeeded in persuading myself that what I had heard was anything but a human voice in terror or in pain.