slowly and surely worming its way into the affections
of those who had discovered it. There was no pier, and therefore there
were but few "trippers." But in the curious blend of brand-new brick
villas and old-world houses of "cob" there dwelt men of varying
fortunes, who in their time had helped to make history, and who had
chosen this peaceful spot on the Devon coast as the one in which to end
their strenuous days.

In one house you would have found a grey-headed veteran who rode into
the valley of death at Balaclava; from another there strolled out on to
the cliff front every morning to turn his dimmed eyes seaward one of the
fast dwindling band who defended the Residency at Lucknow. And there
were others of a younger generation, though also with finished careers,
who had had their share in the Empire-building of the last half-century.
There was, too, a sprinkling of rich business men, who only came to
Ottermouth in the summer time to refresh themselves after toil in great
cities.

In such an earthly paradise, where no one but the clergyman and the
doctor ever pretended to do any work, there was naturally a club--as
cosy and well-managed a rendezvous of the kind as could be found in many
more populous resorts. The permanent members were all proud of it, and
in their jealousy for its good repute were apt to regard stray visitors
admitted to temporary membership with cold criticism till they had
proved their title to more cordial consideration.

The club was the last building on the seaward side of the main street--a
commanding position whence its windows on one side raked the esplanade,
while those at the rear looked out to sea. About noon on a morning
towards the middle of August three gentlemen were lounging in the
general room, smoking and chatting in desultory fashion over the latest
atrocities in _Punch_.

To them suddenly entered the club steward, who approached a tall,
sun-burnt young man sitting a little apart from the others with the
announcement: "There is some one who would like to see you, sir, at the
door. I asked him into the hall, but he preferred to wait outside."

"Didn't he give his name?"

"No, sir; but I think he's a gentleman who has been staying at the
_Plume Hotel_ for the last week. I've seen him going in and out."

The tall young man reared his flannel-clad limbs from the depths of his
comfortable chair, and went out, a half-stifled expression of annoyance
escaping him. He had no sooner