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“Try one of these cigarettes,” he said sociably. “I don’t enjoy smoking alone.”

He was aware, as his unknown friend accepted the offer, that he would have infinitely preferred to refuse.

“Been here long?” he asked him, as they plunged through the shingle towards the sand.

“I’ve lived here nearly all my life,” was the reply. And, after a moment, as if the confidence would not be repressed: “I’m leaving now–for good.”

“Ah!” said Cheveril sympathetically. “It’s pretty beastly when you come to turn out. I’ve done it, and I know.”

“It’s infernal,” said the other gloomily, and relapsed into silence.

“Going abroad?” Cheveril ventured presently.

“Yes. Going to the other side of the world.” Surliness had given place to depression in the boy’s voice. Sympathy, albeit from an unknown quarter, moved him to confidence. “But it isn’t that I mind,” he said, a moment later. “I should be ready enough to clear out if it weren’t for–some one else!”

“A woman, I suppose?” Cheveril said.

He was aware that his companion glanced at him sharply through the gloom, and knew that he was momentarily suspected of eavesdropping.

Then, with impulsive candour, the answer came:

“Yes; the girl I’m engaged to. She has got to stay behind and marry–some one else.”

Cheveril’s teeth closed silently upon his lower lip. This, also, was one of the things he knew.

“You can’t trust her, then?” he said, after a pause.

“Oh, she cares for me–of course!” the boy answered. “But there isn’t a chance for us. They are all dead against me, and the other fellow will be on the spot. He hasn’t asked her yet, but he means to. And her people will simply force her to accept him when he does. Of course they will! He is Cheveril, the millionaire. You must have heard of him. Every one has.”

“I know him well,” said Cheveril.

“So do I–by sight,” the boy plunged on recklessly–“an undersized little animal with a squint.”

“I didn’t know he squinted,” Cheveril remarked into the darkness. “But, anyhow, they can’t make her marry against her will.”

“Can’t they?” returned the other fiercely. “I don’t know what you call it, then. They can make her life so positively unbearable that she will have to give in, if it is only to get away from them. It’s perfectly fiendish; but they will do it. I know they will do it. She hasn’t a single friend to stand by her.”

“Except you,” said Cheveril.

They had nearly reached the water. The rush and splash of the waves held something solemn in their harmonies, like the chords of a splendid symphony. Cheveril heard the quick, indignant voice at his side like a cry of unrest breaking through.

“What can I do?” it said. “I have never had a chance till now. I have just had a berth in India offered to me; but I can’t possibly hope to support a wife for two years at least. And meanwhile–meanwhile—-“

It stopped there; and a long wave broke with a roar, and rushed up in gleaming foam almost to their feet. The younger man stepped back; but Cheveril remained motionless, his face to the swirling water.

Quite suddenly at length he turned, as a man whose mind is made up, and began to walk back to the dimly lighted parade. He marched straight up the shingle, as if with a definite purpose in view, and mounted the rickety iron ladder to the pavement.

His companion followed, too absorbed by his trouble to feel any curiosity regarding the stranger to whom he had poured it out.

Under a flaring gas-lamp, Cheveril stood still.

“Do you mind telling me your name?” he said abruptly.

That roused the boy slightly. “My name is Willowby,” he answered–“James Willowby.”

He looked at Cheveril with a dawning wonder, and the latter uttered a short, grim laugh. The light streamed full upon his face.

“You know me well, don’t you,” he said, “by sight?”

Young Willowby gave a great start and turned crimson. He offered neither apology nor excuse.