go into the village. As he did so,
the tall form of the Skipper came into view in the distance. Dark,
bulky, as yet far off, it shambled forward slowly, hesitatingly, over
the short grass towards the painter. While Uniacke observed it, he
thought it looked definitely animal. It approached, making detours, like
a dog, furtive and intent, that desires to draw near to some object
without seeming to do so. Slowly it came, tacking this way and that,
pausing frequently as if uncertain or alarmed. And Uniacke, standing in
the shadow of the red curtain, watched its movements, fascinated. He did
not know why, but he had a sensation that Fate, loose-limbed, big-boned,
furtive, was shambling over the grass towards his guest. Sir Graham went
on quietly painting. The Skipper made a last detour, got behind the
painter, stole up and peered over his shoulder. Once there, he seemed
spellbound. For he stood perfectly still and never took his large blue
eyes from the canvas. Uniacke went into the little passage, got his hat
and hastened out, impelled yet without purpose. As he crossed the
churchyard he saw Sir Graham put something into the sailor's hand. The
sailor touched his cap awkwardly and rolled off. Uniacke hurried
forward.

"You've finished your work?" he said, coming up.

Sir Graham turned and made him a hasty sign to be silent.

"Don't alarm him," he whispered, with a slight gesture towards the
Skipper, who stood as if in a vacant reverie, looking at the painted
sailor boy.

"But--" Uniacke began.

"Hush!" the painter murmured, almost angrily. "Leave us alone together."

The clergyman moved away with a sinking heart. Indefinable dread seized
him. The association between these two men was fraught with unknown
peril. He felt that, and so strongly, that he was almost tempted to defy
convention and violently interfere to put an end to it. But he
restrained himself and returned to the rectory, watching the two
motionless figures beyond the churchyard wall from the parlour window as
from an ambush, with an intensity of expectation that gave him the
bodily sensation of a man clothed in mail.

In the late afternoon Sir Graham showed him an admirable study of the
Skipper, standing with upraised arms as if ringing the church bells, his
blue eyes fixed as if he scanned a distant horizon, or searched the
endless plains of the sea for his lost companions.

"Forgive my abruptness this morning," the painter said. "I was afraid
your p