Within herself she registered a vindictive vow that, should the
circumstances of her residence in Monkshaven afford the opportunity, she
would endeavour to give him one.

Monkshaven was but a tiny little station, and it was soon apparent that
no conveyance of any kind had been sent to meet her.

"No, there would be none," opined the porter of whom she inquired. "Dr.
Selwyn keeps naught but a little pony-trap, and he's most times using it
himself. But there's a 'bus from the Cliff Hotel meets all trains, miss,
and"--with pride--"there's a station keb."

In a few minutes Sara was the proud--and thankful--occupant of the
"station keb," and, after bumping over the cobbles with which the
station yard was paved, she found herself being driven in leisurely
fashion through the high street of the little town, whilst her driver,
sitting sideways on his box, indicated the points of interest with his
whip as they went along.

Presently the cab turned out of the town and began the ascent of a steep
hill, and as they climbed the winding road, Sara found that she could
glimpse the sea, rippling greyly beyond the town, and tufted with little
bunches of spume whipped into being by the keen March wind. The town
itself spread out before her, an assemblage of red and grey tiled roofs
sloping downwards to the curve of the bay, while, on the right, a bold
promontory thrust itself into the sea, grimly resisting the perpetual
onslaught of the wave. Through the waning light of the winter's
afternoon, Sara could discern the outline of a house limned against
the dark background of woods that crowned it. Linked to the jutting
headland, a long range of sea-washed cliffs stretched as far as the eyes
could reach.

"That be Monk's Cliff," vouchsafed the driver conversationally. "Bit of
a lonesome place for folks to choose to live at, ain't it?"

"Who lives there?" asked Sara with interest.

"Gentleman of the name of Trent--queer kind of bloke he must be, too,
if all's true they say of 'im. He's lived there a matter of ten years or
more--lives by 'imself with just a man and his wife to do for 'im. Far
End, they calls the 'ouse."

"Far End," repeated Sara. The name conveyed an odd sense of remoteness
and inaccessibility. It seemed peculiarly appropriate to a house built
thus on the very edge of the mainland.

Her eyes rested musingly on the bleak promontory. It would be a fit
abode, she thought, for some recluse, determined to eschew the soc