atched his face and figure. "Can you
tell me if I am very far away from the village of Skelwick?"

"About two miles," replied Gwen, wondering who the stranger could be.

"Indeed! And in which direction may the place lie? I'm afraid I am
rather out of my reckoning;" and he pulled a road map from his pocket
and held it within two inches of his eyes.

"It's down there to the left, but the path's a little hard to find.
You have to be careful you don't go through the wrong gap and walk
over the edge of the cliff."

"Tut-tut-tut! Such spots ought to be marked 'Dangerous' on the maps. I
shall write to the publishers and tell them so. As far as I understand
now I am standing exactly here?" and he handed the rather dilapidated
sheet to Gwen for verification.

"What a queer old crank!" she thought; but she answered civilly, and
tried to identify the particular spot, as he seemed so anxious about
it.

"Thank you! If you will put a cross at the point where you consider
there is a dangerous gap I shall be obliged, and will endeavour to
avoid the place," he remarked.

[Illustration: "YES, YOU CAN EASILY GO MILES OUT OF YOUR WAY"]

"I am going back to Skelwick myself, and I could show you the way if
you like," returned Gwen, moved with a sudden compassion for the frail
little figure, a whole head shorter than her stalwart self.

"If it will not be incommoding you, I shall be glad to avail myself of
your offer. I am a trifle shortsighted, and these moorland paths are
confusing."

"Yes, you can easily go miles out of your way," agreed Gwen, wondering
again who the stranger could be.

He did not look like an ordinary tourist, and as they walked together
over the wold he began to make a number of enquiries about Skelwick
and the people who lived there. He was an artful questioner, and Gwen,
almost before she realized what she was doing, gave him a full and
detailed history of the neighbourhood, including what it had been
before Father came, and what it was now.

"Of course some of them still drink, but they're better than they
were," she said. "Six years ago most of the fishermen wouldn't go near
a service, and spent all Sunday with bottles of whisky in that little
cabin on the shore, the very one Dad's made into a newsroom now. I
don't know what the place would do without him if he really--" but
here she stopped in great distress, remembering she was letting out
the secret which Beatrice had strictly enjoined her to keep.