apologizing for his intrusion, and giving his name, town,
and profession as a guarantee of his honesty of purpose.

"Ye are welcome both," replied the fisherman. "We have supped, but the
wife shall set meat and drink before you."

"We are fresh from eating and drinking," said Dan, "and have but looked
in for a little chat, seeing that ye were not abed."

"Say your say, friends."

Dan did so, in his own roundabout fashion. He casually mentioned his
voyages to the West, a theme of unfailing interest to any man dwelling
on the shores of Plymouth Sound. Then he came to the real reason for
his visit. He described the two sailors he had met in Plymouth. The
fisherman had never seen them. Dan had guessed as much, but he wanted
to be sure. Then he sketched Basil. The fisherman sat upright in a
moment.

"I know him," he cried. "He has been amongst us, off and on, for more
than a month. I'll take you to him."

But Dan would not trouble any one to do that.

"He knows me well enough," he replied, "and I would rather take him by
surprise. We had a jolly time together last Christmas."

So the fisherman pointed out where Basil was staying, and his two
callers took their leave, promising to look in upon him again in the
morning.

Apart from the row of cottages stood the house in which Brother Basil
was staying. At one time the place had made some pretensions to
smartness. It was stone-built throughout and tiled. In the rear was
an orchard of apple-trees; and a herb garden, now choked with weeds,
separated the front of the house from the roadway. The place was in
the occupation of a widow woman, whose late husband had once been a man
of some means.

The night was sufficiently starlit for a sailor to pick his way with
certainty, and the two men went rapidly forward. The gate in the fence
stood ajar, and Dan went first to spy out the land. The front window
was heavily shuttered, an unusual precaution to take on a fine night.
Putting his eye to a chink, the sailor could just discern the shadowy
outline of a man seated at a table. A rushlight stood beside him, and
apparently he was reading. Passing on to the door, he found that the
latch-string was pulled in through the latch-hole; the door was secure.
Steadily, Dan pressed against it; it was firm as the wall, no play to
and fro on latch and hinge. "Bolted," he muttered, and stole back to
the fence, in whose shadow Nick was still standing. He whispered his