they were merely bleak and forbidding, craggy and gray and cold.
Unquestionably they contained many caverns and crevices that would be
worth exploring. And I was a little amazed at the fury with which the
incoming waves beat against and over the rocky barrier. They came with
a veritable ferocity, and the sea beyond seemed hardly rough enough to
justify them.

Grover Nealman himself met me when I turned on to the level, gravel
driveway. There was nothing about him in keeping with that desolate
driveway. A familiar type, he looked the gentleman and sportsman that he
was. Probably the man was forty-four or forty-five years old, but he was
not the type that yields readily to middle-age. Nealman unquestionably
still considered himself a young man, and he believed it heartily enough
to convince his friends. Self-reliant, inured to power and influence,
somewhat aristocratic, he could not yield himself to the admission of
the march of the years. He was of medium height, rather thickly built,
with round face, thick nose, and rather sensual lips; but his eyes,
behind his tortoise-shell glasses, were friendly and spirited; and his
hand-clasp was democratic and firm. By virtue of his own pride of race
and class he was a good sportsman: likely a crack shot and an expert
fisherman. Probably a man that drank moderately, was still youthful
enough to enjoy a boyish celebration, a man who lived well, who had
traveled widely and read good books, and who could carry out the
traditions of a distinguished family--this was Grover Nealman, master of
Kastle Krags.

I didn't suppose for a moment that Nealman had made his own fortune.
There were no fighting lines in his face, nor cold steel of conflict in
his eyes. There was one deep, perpendicular line between his eyes, but
it was born of worry, not battle. The man was moderately shrewd,
probably able to take care of his investments, yet he could never have
been a builder, a captain of industry. He dressed like a man born to
wealth, well-fitting white flannels whose English tailoring afforded
free room for arm and shoulder movements; a silk shirt and soft white
collar, panama hat and buckskin shoes.

He was not a southerner. The first words he uttered proved that fact.

"So you are Mr. Killdare," he said easily. He didn't say it "Killdaih,"
as he would had he been a native of the place. "Come with me into my
study. I can tell you there what I've got lined up. I'm mighty glad
you've come."