hich the writer appeared to have moistened with his
tongue every now and then, some letters being thicker and darker than
others. The message, if mysterious, was straightforward enough. "_Sir,"_
it ran, "_if so be as you'd like to have a bit of news from one as has
it, take a walk through Hobkin's Hole tomorrow morning and look out for
Yours truly--Him as writes this_."

Like most very young men Copplestone on arriving at what he called
manhood (by which he meant the age of twenty-one years), had drawn up for
himself a code of ethics, wherein he had mentally scheduled certain
things to be done and certain things not to be done. One of the things
which he had firmly resolved never to do was to take any notice of an
anonymous letter. Here was an anonymous letter, and with it a conflict
between his principles and his inclinations. In five minutes he learnt
that cut-and-dried codes are no good when the hard facts of every-day
life have to be faced and that expediency is a factor in human existence
which has its moral values. In plain English, he made up his mind to
visit Hobkin's Hole next morning and find out who the unknown
correspondent was.

He was half tempted to go round to the cottage and show the queer scrawl
to Audrey Greyle, of whom, having passed six delightful hours in her
company--he was beginning to think much more than was good for him,
unless he intended to begin thinking of her always. But he was still
young enough to have a spice of bashfulness about him, and he did not
want to seem too pushing or forward. Again, it seemed to him that the
anonymous letter conveyed, in some subtle fashion, a hint that it was to
be regarded as sacred and secret, and Copplestone had a strong sense of
honour. He knew that Mrs. Wooler was femininely curious to hear all about
that letter, but he took care not to mention it to her. Instead he
quietly consulted an ordnance map of the district which hung framed and
glazed in the hall of the inn, and discovering that Hobkin's Hole was
marked on it as being something or other a mile or two out of Scarhaven
on the inland side, he set out in its direction next morning after
breakfast, without a word to anyone as to where he was going. And that he
might not be entirely defenceless he carried Peter Chatfield's oaken
staff with him--that would certainly serve to crack any ordinary skull,
if need arose for measure of defence.

The road which Copplestone followed out of the village soon t