ower storey of Cloomber, I could not but admit the force
of my sister's objection. The untimely visitor must either have used
considerable violence in order to force his way in, or he must have
obtained possession of the keys.

Piqued by the little mystery, I pulled for the beach, with the
determination to see for myself who the intruder might be, and what
were his intentions. Leaving my sister at Branksome, and summoning
Seth Jamieson, an old man-o'-war's-man and one of the stoutest of the
fishermen, I set off across the moor with him through the gathering
darkness.

"It hasna a guid name after dark, yon hoose," remarked my companion,
slackening his pace perceptibly as I explained to him the nature of our
errand. "It's no for naething that him wha owns it wunna gang within a
Scotch mile o't."

"Well, Seth, there is some one who has no fears about going into it,"
said I, pointing to the great, white building which flickered up in
front of us through the gloom.

The light which I had observed from the sea was moving backwards and
forward past the lower floor windows, the shutters of which had been
removed. I could now see that a second fainter light followed a few
paces behind the other. Evidently two individuals, the one with a
lamp and the other with a candle or rushlight, were making a careful
examination of the building.

"Let ilka man blaw his ain parritch," said Seth Jamieson doggedly,
coming to a dead stop. "What is it tae us if a wraith or a bogle
minds tae tak' a fancy tae Cloomber? It's no canny tae meddle wi' such
things."

"Why, man," I cried, "you don't suppose a wraith came here in a gig?
What are those lights away yonder by the avenue gates?"

"The lamps o' a gig, sure enough!" exclaimed my companion in a less
lugubrious voice. "Let's steer for it, Master West, and speer where she
hails frae."

By this time night had closed in save for a single long, narrow slit in
the westward. Stumbling across the moor together, we made our way into
the Wigtown Road, at the point where the high stone pillars mark the
entrance to the Cloomber avenue. A tall dog-cart stood in front of the
gateway, the horse browsing upon the thin border of grass which skirted
the road.

"It's a' richt!" said Jamieson, taking a close look at the deserted
vehicle. "I ken it weel. It belongs tae Maister McNeil, the factor body
frae Wigtown--him wha keeps the keys."

"Then we may as well have speech with him now that we are here,