of the southern portion of which was enclosed with glass.  From the fragment of rock upon which he had seated himself, to the raised stone terrace in front of the house, was an absolutely straight path, beautifully kept like an avenue, with white posts on either side, and built up to a considerable height above the broad tidal way which ran for some distance by its side.  It had almost the appearance of a racing track, and its state of preservation in the midst of the wilderness was little short of remarkable.

“This,” Hamel said to himself, as he slowly produced a pipe from his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco from a battered silver box, “is a queer fix.  Looks rather like the inn for me!”

“And who might you be, gentleman?”

He turned abruptly around towards his unseen questioner.  A woman was standing by the side of the rock upon which he was sitting, a woman from the village, apparently, who must have come with noiseless footsteps along the sandy way.  She was dressed in rusty black, and in place of a hat she wore a black woolen scarf tied around her head and underneath her chin.  Her face was lined, her hair of a deep brown plentifully besprinkled with grey.  She had a curious habit of moving her lips, even when she was not speaking.  She stood there smiling at him, but there was something about that smile and about her look which puzzled him.

“I am just a visitor,” he replied.  “Who are you?”

She shook her head.

“I saw you come out of the Tower,” she said, speaking with a strong local accent and yet with a certain unusual correctness, “in at the window and out of the door.  You’re a brave man.”

“Why brave?” he asked.

She turned her head very slowly towards St. David’s Hall.  A gleam of sunshine had caught one of the windows, which shone like fire.  She pointed toward it with her head.

“He’s looking at you,” she muttered.  “He don’t like strangers poking around here, that I can tell you.”

“And who is he?” Hamel enquired.

“Squire Fentolin,” she answered, dropping her voice a little.  “He’s a very kind-hearted gentleman, Squire Fentolin, but he don’t like strangers hanging around.”

“Well, I am not exactly a stranger, you see,” Hamel remarked.  “My father used to stay for months at a time in that little shanty there and paint pictures.  It’s a good many years ago.”

“I mind him,” the woman said slowly.  “His name was Hamel.”

“I am his son,” Hamel announced.

She pointed to the Hall.  “Does he know that you are here?”

Hamel shook his head.  “Not yet.  I have been abroad for so long.”

She suddenly relapsed into her curious habit.  Her lips moved, but no words came.  She had turned her head a little and was facing the sea.

“Tell me,” Hamel asked gently, “why do you come out here alone, so far from the village?”