admitted, "nothing that counts."

"Come," he continued, "couldn't we clear this matter up sensibly? Do
you believe that there is anybody in there? Do you believe the place is
being used in any way for a wrong purpose? If so, we will insist upon
having the keys from Mr. Fentolin. He cannot refuse. The place is mine."

"Mr. Fentolin would not give you the keys, sir," she replied. "If he
did, it would be useless."

"Would you like me to break the door in?" Hamel asked.

"You could not do it, sir," she told him, "not you nor anybody else. The
door is thicker than my fist, of solid oak. It was a mechanic from New
York who fitted the locks. I have heard it said in the village--Bill
Hamas, the carpenter, declares that there are double doors. The workmen
who were employed here were housed in a tent upon the beach and sent
home the day they finished their job. They were never allowed in the
village. They were foreigners, most of them. They came from nobody knows
where, and when they had finished they disappeared. Why was that, sir?
What is there inside which Mr. Fentolin needs to guard so carefully?"

"Mr. Fentolin has invented something," Hamel explained. "He keeps the
model in there. Inventors are very jealous of their work."

She looked down upon the floor for a moment.

"I shall be here at seven o'clock in the morning, sir. I will give you
your breakfast at the usual time."

Hamel opened the door for her.

"Good night, Mrs. Cox," he said. "Would you like me to walk a little way
with you? It's a lonely path to the village, and the dikes are full."

"Thank you, no, sir," she replied. "It's a lonely way, right enough,
but it isn't loneliness that frightens me. I am less afraid out with the
winds and the darkness than under this roof. If I lose my way and wander
all night upon the marsh, I'll be safer out there than you, sir."

She passed away, and Hamel watched her disappear into the darkness. Then
he dragged out a bowl of tobacco and filled a pipe. Although he was half
ashamed of himself, he strolled back once more into the kitchen, and,
drawing up a stool, he sat down just where he had discovered Hannah Cox,
sat still and listened. No sound of any sort reached him. He sat there
for ten minutes. Then he scrambled to his feet.

"She is mad, of course!" he muttered.

He mixed himself a whisky and soda, relit his pipe, which had gone out,
and drew up an easy-chair to the fire which she had left him in the
sitting-r