s round these parts?"

"I've only come into these parts this morning," I replied. "But--if
you look closely at that map, you'll observe that there aren't many
villages along the coast, so your search ought not to be a lengthy
one. I should question if you'll find more than two or three
churchyards between here and Brandell Bay--judging by the map."

"Aye, well, Netherfield is the name," he repeated. "Netherfield,
mother's side. In some churchyards hereabouts. And there may be some
of 'em left--and again there mayn't be. My name being Quick--Salter
Quick. Of Devonport--when on land."

He folded up and handed back the map, with an old-fashioned bow. I
rose from the ledge of rock on which I had been resting, and made to
go forward.

"I hope you'll come across what you're seeking, Mr. Quick," I said.
"But I should say you won't have much difficulty. There can't be many
churchyards in this quarter, and not many gravestones in any of them."

"I found nothing in that one behind," he answered, jerking his thumb
towards Lesbury. "And it's a long time since my mother left these
parts. But here I am--for the purpose, d'ye see, master. Time's no
object--nor yet expense. A man must take a bit of a holiday some day
or other. Ain't had one--me--for thirty odd year."

* * * * *

We walked forward, northing our course, along the headlands. And
rounding a sharp corner, we suddenly came in sight of a little
settlement that lay half-way down the cliff. There was a bit of a
cottage or two, two or three boats drawn up on a strip of yellow sand,
a crumbling smithie, and above these things, on a shelf of rock, a
low-roofed, long-fronted inn, by the gable of which rose a mast,
wherefrom floated a battered flag. At the sight of this I saw a gleam
come into my companion's eye, and I was quick to understand it's
meaning.

"Do you feel disposed to a glass of ale?" I asked. "I should say we
could get one down there."

"Rum," he replied, laconically. "Rum is my drink, master. Used to
that--I ain't used to ale. Cold stuff! Give me something that warms a
man."

"It's poor ale that won't warm a man's belly," I said with a laugh.
"But every man to his taste. Come on, then."

He followed in silence down the path to the lonely inn; once, looking
back, I saw that he was turning a sharp eye round and about the new
stretch of country that had just opened before us. From the inn and
its surroundings a winding track