ly enough, since it was erected, there have been more
wrecks than ever."

"It doesn't seem a dangerous beach," he remarked.

She pointed to a spot about fifty yards from the Tower. It was the
spot to which the woman whom he had met on the day of his arrival had
pointed.

"You can't see them," she said; "they are always out of sight, even
when the tide is at the lowest--but there are some hideous sunken rocks
there. 'The Daggers,' they call them. One or two fishing boats have been
lost on them, trying to make the village. When Mr. Fentolin put up the
lamp, every one thought that it would be quite safe to try and get in
at night. This winter, though, there have been three wrecks which no
one could understand. It must be something in the currents, or a sort of
optical illusion, because in the last shipwreck one man was saved,
and he swore that at the time they struck the rock, they were headed
straight for the light."

They had reached the Tower now. Hamel became a little absorbed. They
walked around it, and he tried the front door. He found, as he had
expected, that it opened readily. He looked around him for several
moments.

"Your uncle has been here this morning," he remarked quietly.

"Very likely."

"That outhouse," he continued, "must be quite a large place. Have you
any idea what it is he works upon there?"

"None," she answered.

He looked around him once more.

"Mr. Fentolin has been preparing for my coming," he observed. "I see
that he has moved a few of his personal things."

She made no reply, only she shivered a little as she stepped back into
the sunshine.

"I don't believe you like my little domicile," he remarked, as they
started off homeward.

"I don't," she admitted curtly.

"In the train," he reminded her, "you seemed rather to discourage my
coming here. Yet last night, after dinner--"

"I was wrong," she interrupted. "I should have said nothing, and yet I
couldn't help it. I don't suppose it will make any difference."

"Make any difference to what?"

"I cannot tell you," she confessed. "Only I have a strange antipathy to
the place. I don't like it. My uncle sometimes shuts himself up here
for quite a long time. We have an idea, Gerald and I, that things happen
here sometimes which no one knows of. When he comes back, he is moody
and ill-tempered, or else half mad with excitement. He isn't always the
amiable creature whom you have met. He has the face of an angel, but
there are