head into the driving mist.

"Just as you say," he declared. "I ain't particular in want of any one,
but I'm getting to find my own bookkeeping a bit hard, especially now
that my eyes ain't what they were. Of course it would only be a thirty
bob a week job, but I suppose you'd live on that all right, unless you
were thinking of getting married, eh?"

I laughed derisively.

"Married, Mr. Moyat!" I exclaimed. "Why, I'm next door to a pauper."

"There's such a thing," he remarked thoughtfully, "if one's a steady
sort of chap, and means work, as picking up a girl with a bit of brass
now and then."

"I can assure you, Mr. Moyat," I said as coolly as possible, "that
anything of that sort is out of the question so far as I am concerned.
I should never dream of even thinking of getting married till I had a
home of my own and an income."

He seemed about to say something, but checked himself. We drove on in
silence till we came to a dark pile of buildings standing a little way
back from the road. He moved his head towards it.

"They tell me Braster Grange is took after all," he remarked. "Mr.
Hulshaw told me so this morning."

I was very little interested, but was prepared to welcome any change in
the conversation.

"Do you know who is coming there?" I asked.

"An American lady, I believe, name of Lessing. I don't know what
strangers want coming to such a place, I'm sure."

I glanced involuntarily over my shoulder. Braster Grange was a long
grim pile of buildings, which had been unoccupied for many years.
Between it and the sea was nothing but empty marshland. It was one of
the bleakest spots along the coast--to the casual observer nothing but
an arid waste of sands in the summer, a wilderness of desolation in the
winter. Only those who have dwelt in those parts are able to feel the
fascination of that great empty land, a fascination potent enough, but
of slow growth. Mr. Moyat's remark was justified.

We drove into his stable yard and clambered down.

"You'll come in and have a bit of supper," Mr. Moyat insisted.

I hesitated. I felt that it would be wiser to refuse, but I was cold
and wet, and the thought of my fireless room depressed me. So I was
ushered into the long low dining-room, with its old hunting prints and
black oak furniture, and, best of all, with its huge log fire. Mrs.
Moyat greeted me with her usual negative courtesy. I do not think that
I was a favourite of hers, but whatever her welcome lacke