him, defiantly.

"In the open, upon a beach, on a windy night," he said, quick as
lightning. Then he mused slowly. "They were characters, both of them, by
George; and the old man keeps it up well--don't he? A damned shovel on
the--Hark! who's that making that row? 'Bessie, Bessie.' It's in your
house."

"It's for me," she said, with indifference.

He stepped aside, out of the streak of light. "Your husband?" he
inquired, with the tone of a man accustomed to unlawful trysts. "Fine
voice for a ship's deck in a thundering squall."

"No; my father. I am not married."

"You seem a fine girl, Miss Bessie, dear," he said at once.

She turned her face away.

"Oh, I say,--what's up? Who's murdering him?"

"He wants his tea." She faced him, still and tall, with averted head,
with her hands hanging clasped before her.

"Hadn't you better go in?" he suggested, after watching for a while the
nape of her neck, a patch of dazzling white skin and soft shadow above
the sombre line of her shoulders. Her wrap had slipped down to her
elbows. "You'll have all the town coming out presently. I'll wait here a
bit."