I cried "Carette! Carette!" But only a wheeling gull squawked mockingly in reply.

Then I ran along the trodden way to their landing-place.

There was a boat lying there with its nose on the shore,--no sign of outrage anywhere.

Could Krok be mistaken?
Could Carette just have rowed over to Havre Gosselin for something she was in need of?
I went down to the boat, doubtful of my next move.
In the boat that nosed the shore lay Helier Le Marchant, my comrade in prison, in escape, in many perils, with a bullet-hole in his forehead--dead.

And I knew that Krok was right and my worst fears were justified.
Torode had landed, had caught Carette abroad, in carrying her off they had met Le Marchant hastening to her assistance, and had slain him,--the foul cowards that they were.
There was nothing I could do for him.