mile of that
beautiful trip. We conversed seldom, although there was much to
discuss and our time was short.

At last, we sped past a great looming rock, which stood almost sheer
out of the sea, then we ran into a glorious bay, where the sea danced
and glanced in a fairy ecstasy.

"Golden Crescent Bay," broke in Mr. Horsfal. "How do you like it?"

"It is Paradise," I exclaimed, in breathless admiration. And never
have I had reason to change that first impression and opinion.

We ran alongside a rocky headland close to the shore, on which stood
two little wooden sheds bearing the numbers one and two. We clambered
up.

"Number one is for gasoline; two for oil," volunteered my ever
informing employer.

The rock was connected to the shore by a well-built, wooden wharf on
piles, which ran directly into what I rightly guessed had been the
summer home of Mrs. Horsfal. It was a plainly built cottage and trim
as a warship. It bore signs of having been recently painted, while,
all around, the grass was trim and tidy.

On the right of this, about fifty yards across, on the same cleared
area, but out on a separate rocky headland, stood another well-built
cottage, the windows of which were boarded up.

"My property starts ten yards to the south of the wharf here, George,
and runs around the bay as far, almost, as it goes, and back to the
hills quite a bit. That over there is the other house I spoke to you
about. It, and the property to the south, is owned by some one in the
Western States.

"But I wonder where the devil old Jake Meaghan is. Folks could land
here and walk away with the whole shebang and he would never know of
it."

As he spoke, however, a small boat crept out from some little cove
about three hundred yards round the bay. It contained a man, who rowed
it leisurely toward the wharf. We leaned over the wooden rail and
waited.

The man ran the boat into the shingly beach, pulled in his oars,
climbed out and made toward us. An Airedale dog, which had evidently
been curled up in the bottom of the boat, sprang out after him, keeping
close to him and eyeing us suspiciously and angrily.

In appearance the man reminded me of one of R. L. Stevenson's pirates,
or one of Jack London's 'longshoremen.

He wore heavy logging boots, brown canvas trousers kept up by a belt,
and a brown shirt, showing hairy brown arms and a bared, scraggy
throat. A battered, sun-cast, felt hat lay on his head. His face w