and heard nothing, then?" he persisted.
"I have only been here a short time," I replied. "Why do you ask?"
"I only wondered, that is all. The people over at St. Eia say that foreigners have been sneaking around trying to pick up information, and I wondered whether you had heard anything."
"No," I replied, "nothing at all."
"I suppose," he said, "that these cliffs here are honey-combed with caves? Have you seen any of them?"
"Yes," I replied. "I saw one the day after I came here. I came upon it suddenly, for the entrance to it is only a fissure in the rocks."
"Ah!" he cried. "Did you enter?"
"Yes," was my reply, "but it was not at all mysterious. I could see all round it by the aid of a match, and it contained nothing. Of course, it was very curious and very interesting."
"But you saw nothing suspicious?" he asked.
I shook my head.
My visitor did not remain long after this, and although for a time I wondered why he should be so interested, I soon ceased to pay attention to his questions.
Perhaps I should have thought more about him, but just before noon I had another visitor. This was a young fellow about twenty-two years of age, whom I knew to be an Oxford man before he had spoken a dozen words.
"My name is Lethbridge," he said. "My people live up at Trecarrel yonder, and I came – well, I came really at my pater's request."
"Indeed," I said, looking at him curiously.
"Yes; you were at Chapel on Sunday morning, weren't you?"
"I was," I replied.
"Well, my pater and sister were there, and the pater wondered very much who you were. In the evening, contrary to his usual custom, he went a second time, and saw your servant, who told him who you were. Directly the pater mentioned your name, I remembered hearing it in Oxford. You are an Oxford man, aren't you?"
"Yes. I was at Balliol."
"So was I. I left last June. You are often spoken of by the men. Indeed, I had your old rooms. You will excuse the liberty we took in talking about you, won't you? but really we have very little to interest us in this corner of the world."
"You are very kind to come," I replied.
"When I told my father who you were, he suggested that I should come down and ask you to come up to dinner. You see, we had heard of some one coming to live in old Father Abraham's hut, and when it turned out to be you, we got interested. You will forgive this informal method of procedure, won't you? But if you will come up and spend an evening with us soon, we shall all be jolly glad."
"I am afraid I am too ill to come," I replied.
"You do look a bit seedy," was his response, "but the air down here is ripping. It will soon set you up again."
"I am afraid I am too far gone for that," was my reply, "but if I am well enough, I shall be only too glad to come."
"Say to-morrow night," he said.
"If you will leave it an open question," was my reply, "I will say yes, but if I am too ill, you will understand the reason for my absence."
He looked at me closely.
"Is it as bad as that?"
"I am afraid it is," and I sighed when I spoke, for at that moment a wave of desire for life rolled over me.
"May I smoke?" he asked, pulling out his pipe.
"Please forgive me," I said. "I will tell Simpson to bring some cigars."
"Oh no, thank you. A pipe for me, please. By the way, I did not know you were of the Chapel-going order. The one reason I doubted it was you was because my father said you were at the little Wesleyan Chapel."
"I went there out of curiosity, I am afraid. I was wondering whether these people had anything to say to a man whose days were numbered."
"I go there twice a year," was his reply. "I used to go regularly when a boy. Do you intend to stay long down here, by the way?"
"To the end, I expect," I said, shrugging my shoulders.
"Come, now, we will not talk like that. I am sorry to see you looking so seedy. You were always spoken of in Oxford as an athlete. You got your Blue, didn't you?"
"Yes," I replied; "but one never knows what germs of disease one has in one's system. However, we will not talk about that. It is awfully good of you to ask me to come up to your house."
"Rather it will be awfully good of you if you come," he replied. "What a jolly fine view you have here. The old man who built this hut chose one of the most beautiful positions on the whole coast. How did you find it out?"
"Simpson, my man, did that for me," was my reply. "He was a boy down here, he says, and when I told him I had to get away from London, he came down here on spec. I consider myself very lucky."
"I am afraid you will find it a bit lonely in the winter, won't you? The sea is all right when the sun is shining on it, but in winter, when the clouds are black, I know of nothing more dismal. Besides, those black, beetling cliffs are enough to strike terror into one's soul."
I must confess to liking young Lethbridge. He was an athletic, healthy-looking young fellow, tanned by much exposure to the sun, and his every look and movement suggested frankness and honesty. I did not judge him to be very clever, but he was certainly likeable.
"You were doing very well at the Bar, weren't you?" he went on. "Our chaps at Balliol spoke of you as one who would bring added lustre to the old College."
"I was only just beginning to see light," was the reply. "I was lucky in one of the cases I had, and won it by a fluke. That was why briefs were beginning to come in. But I have got to the end of them now. What do you do with yourself?"
"That is the hang of it," he replied. "I am doing nothing. The pater wanted me to go in for the Law, and then try for Parliament. He has an idea that I ought to represent one of the Cornish constituencies, but I am not cut out for that sort of thing."
"What would you like to be?" I asked.
"Oh, a farmer," he replied. "If, instead of spending all the money he has spent in sending me to Oxford, the pater had bought a thousand acres of land and set me up farming, I should be as happy as a king, but law books are just Sanskrit to me. I love an open-air life, and I love horses and animals generally. The pater won't see things in my light, however; that is why I am doing nothing. I wish you would tell him when you come up that none but brainy men can do anything at the Bar. Well, it is close upon lunch-time, and I must go. But you will be sure to come, won't you? Look here, let's have an understanding. I will send the motor down to the end of the lane to-morrow evening at seven o'clock, and then, if you cannot come, you can send your man out to tell the chauffeur. But be sure to come, if you can."
When he had gone I somehow felt better. His very presence was healthful, and I looked forward with pleasure to meeting him again.
"You have been quite busy this morning, sir," said Simpson when he came in to lay the table for my lunch. "Two visitors in one day in a neighborhood like this is something
