Monsieur de Gemosac paused, with his cigarette held poised halfway to
his lips, and watched the man go past, while Dormer Colville, leaning
back against the wall, scanned him sideways between lowered lids.

It would seem that Barebone must have an appointment. He walked without
looking about him, like one who is late. He rather avoided than sought
the greeting of a friend from the open cottage-doors as he passed on. On
reaching the quay he turned quickly to the left, following the path that
led toward the dyke at the riverside.

"He is no sailor at heart," commented Colville. "He never even glanced
at his ship."

"And yet it was he who steered the ship in that dangerous river."

"He may be skilful in anything he undertakes," suggested Colville, in
explanation. "It is Captain Clubbe who will tell us that. For Captain
Clubbe has known him since his birth, and was the friend of his father."

They sat in silence watching the shadowy figure on the dyke, outlined
dimly against the hazy horizon. He was walking, still with haste as if
to a certain destination, toward the rectory buried in its half circle
of crouching trees. And already another shadow was hurrying from
the house to meet him. It was the boy, little Sep Marvin, and in the
stillness of the evening his shrill voice could be heard in excited
greeting.

"What have you brought? What have you brought?" he was crying, as he ran
toward Barebone. They seemed to have so much to say to each other that
they could not wait until they came within speaking distance. The boy
took Barebone's hand, and turning walked back with him to the old house
peeping over the dyke toward the sea. He could scarcely walk quietly,
for joy at the return of his friend, and skipped from side to side,
pouring out questions and answering them himself as children and women
do.

But Barebone gave him only half of his attention and looked before him
with grave eyes, while the boy talked of nests and knives. Barebone was
looking toward the garden, concealed like an intrenchment behind the
dyke. It was a quiet evening, and the rector was walking slowly
backward and forward on the raised path, made on the dyke itself, like
a ship-captain on his quarter-deck, with hands clasped behind his bent
back and eyes that swept the horizon at each turn with a mechanical
monotony. At one end of the path, which was worn smooth by the Reverend
Septimus Marvin's pensive foot, the gleam of a white dress betrayed