"
They clambered down and wandered hand in hand by the seashore. She
told him quaint little stories of the smugglers, of wrecks, and the
legends of the fisher people. Coming back along the sands, she clung
to his arm and grew more silent. Her eyes sought his every now and
then, wistfully. Presently she pointed out a tiny whitewashed cottage
standing by itself on a piece of waste ground.
"That is where I live now, at least for a day or two," she said. "They
cannot keep me any longer. When are you going away?"
"Very soon, I am afraid, little girl," he answered. "I will come and
see you, though, before I go."
"You promise," she said solemnly.
"I promise," Aynesworth repeated.
Then she held up her face, a little timidly, and he kissed her.
Afterwards, he watched her turn with slow, reluctant footsteps to the
unpromising abode which she had pointed out. Aynesworth made his way
to the inn, cursing his impecuniosity and Wingrave's brutal
indifference.
He found the latter busy writing letters.
"Doing your work, Aynesworth?" he remarked coldly. "Be so good as to
write to Christie's for me, and ask them to send down a valuer to go
through the pictures."
"You are really going to sell!" Aynesworth exclaimed.
"Most certainly," Wingrave answered. "Heirlooms and family pictures
are only so much rubbish to me. I am the last of my line, and I doubt
whether even my lawyer could discover a next of kin for my personal
property.
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