isdom of presently returning to "Crow's Nest" and
felt a strong inclination to do so. Little guessing that he would be
there again on the morrow, he determined to remind Bendigo Redmayne
of his invitation in early spring. By that time much might have
happened, for he intended to correspond with Jenny, or at any fate
take the first step in a correspondence.

The moon had risen as he pursued his lonely road and it shone clear
through a gathering scud that threatened soon to overwhelm the
silver light. Clouds flew fast and, above Brendon's head, telegraph
wires hummed the song of a gathering storm. The man's thoughts
proceeded as irregularly as the fitful and shouting wind. He weighed
each word that Jenny had said and strove to understand each look
that she had given him.

He tried to convince himself that Bendigo Redmayne's theory must,
after all, be false, and he assured himself that by no possibility
could the widow of Michael Pendean ever lose her sad heart to this
stranger from Italy. The idea was out of the question, for surely a
woman of such fine mould, so suddenly and tragically bereaved, would
never find in this handsome chatterbox, throbbing with egotism, any
solace for sorrow, or promise for future contentment. In theory his
view seemed sound. Yet he knew, even while he reflected, that love
in its season may shatter all theories and upset even the most
consistent of characters.

Still deep in thought Brendon tramped on; and then, where the road
fell between a high bank to the windward side and a pine wood on the
other, he experienced one of the greatest surprises that life had
yet brought him.

At a gate, which hung parallel with the road and opened into the
depth of a copse behind, there stood Robert Redmayne.

The five-barred gate alone separated them and the big man lolled
over it with his arms crossed on the topmost bar. The moonlight beat
full into his face, and overhead the pines uttered a harsh and
sullen roar as the wind surged over them; while from far below the
shout of an angry sea upon the cliffs was carried upward. The red
man stood motionless, watchful. He wore the tweed clothes, cap and
red waistcoat that Brendon well remembered at Foggintor; the
moonlight flashed on his startled eyes and showed his great mustache
and white teeth visible beneath it. There was dread upon his face
and haggard misery, yet no madness.

It seemed that he kept a tryst there; but it had not been Mark
Brendon th