ort of way," he answered. "My father was Hamel the
artist, you know. They made him an R.A. some time before he died. He
used to come out here and live in a tent. Then Mr. Fentolin let him use
this place and finally sold it to him. My father used often to speak to
me about it before he died."

"Tell me," she enquired, "I do not know much about these matters, but
have you any papers to prove that it was sold to your father and that
you have the right to occupy it now when you choose?"

He smiled.

"Of course I have," he assured her. "As a matter of fact, as none of us
have been here for so long, I thought I'd better bring the title-deed,
or whatever they call it, along with me. It's with the rest of my traps
at Norwich. Oh, the place belongs to me, right enough!" he went on,
smiling. "Don't tell me that any one's pulled it down, or that it's
disappeared from the face of the earth?"

"No," she said, "it still remains there. When we are round the next
curve, I think I can show it to you. But every one has forgotten, I
think, that it doesn't belong to Mr. Fentolin still. He uses it himself
very often."

"What for?"

She looked at her questioner quite steadfastly, quite quietly,
speechlessly. A curious uneasiness crept into his thoughts. There were
mysterious things in her face. He knew from that moment that she, too,
directly or indirectly, was concerned with those strange happenings at
which Kinsley had hinted. He knew that there were things which she was
keeping from him now.

"Mr. Fentolin uses one of the rooms as a studio. He likes to paint there
and be near the sea," she explained. "But for the rest, I do not know. I
never go near the place."

"I am afraid," he remarked, after a few moments of silence, "that I
shall be a little unpopular with Mr. Fentolin. Perhaps I ought to have
written first, but then, of course, I had no idea that any one was
making use of the place."

"I do not understand," she said, "how you can possibly expect to come
down like this and live there, without any preparation."

"Why not?"

"You haven't any servants nor any furniture nor things to cook with."

He laughed.

"Oh! I am an old campaigner," he assured her. "I meant to pick up a few
oddments in the village. I don't suppose I shall stay very long, anyhow,
but I thought I'd like to have a look at the place. By-the-by, what sort
of a man is Mr. Fentolin?"

Again there was that curious expression in her eyes, an expression
a