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Billy sat looking away. His grey eyes had grown somber. "See here," he said suddenly, "do you know that old man Scroggie left a will?" "What do you see? The French Flotilla?" cried Miss Acton in a voice tremulous with agitation. She darted her eyes through her glasses over the sea. Billy waited for no more. He was up and away like a shot. Mrs. Wilson, clutching her gold piece in one hand and brushing back her deranged hair with the other, went back into the house..

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Stunned into inaction by the ease and suddenness with which Billy had turned the tables against him Anson had only time to take one longing glance toward the door. His mother had lifted the razor-strop from its nail and as he made a frenzied leap toward safety her strong hand gripped him by the wet hair. "Swish" fell the strop and Anson's wail of woe rent the Sabbath air. In vain he squirmed, cried, protested his innocence. Lucy looked at her father with an expression of surprise that vanished from her fine dramatic eyes in an instant. "'That's just where I don't want it left,' he says. 'I want it kept safe. I'll take a chance on dying suddenly.' And by George! the old fellow got up and shambled out, leaving a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table." Lucy Acton made her way towards Old Harbour Town by a lane that struck down off the road used by the coaches and post-chaises. This lane was broad and in places steep and rugged, with long spaces heavily flanked with tall and spacious trees. Elsewhere the low hedge revealed the sloping meadow or ploughed field whose margin where it sank low was defined against the blue water of the ocean..