al was the Scarhaven estate
agent was literally short of marvellous. What was also astounding was to
see Chatfield's only too evident distress. Swathed in a heavy,
old-fashioned ulster, with a plaid shawl round his shoulders and a
deerstalker hat tied over head and ears with a bandanna handkerchief he
sat on the beach nursing his knees, slightly rocking his fleshy figure to
and fro and moaning softly with the regularity of a minute bell. His eyes
were fixed on the dark expanse of waters at his feet; his lips, when he
was not moaning, worked incessantly; as he rocked his body he beat his
toes on the shingle. Clearly, Chatfield was in a bad way, mentally. That
he was not so badly off materially was made evident by the presence of a
half-open kit bag which obviously contained food and a bottle of spirits.

For any notice that he took of them, Audrey, Vickers, and Copplestone
might have been no more than the pebbles on which they stood. In spite of
the fact that Vickers shone the light on his fat face, and that three
inquisitive pairs of eyes were trained on it, Chatfield continued to
stare moodily and disgustedly out to sea and to take no notice of his
gratuitous company. And so utterly extraordinary was his behaviour and
attitude that Audrey suddenly and almost involuntarily stepped forward
and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Mr. Chatfield!" she exclaimed. "What 's the matter? Are you ill?"

The emphasis which she gave to the last word roused some quality of
Chatfield's subtle intellect. He flashed a swift look at his
questioner--a look of mingled contempt and derision, spiced with a dash
of sneering humour. And he found his tongue.

"Ill!" he snorted. "Ill! She asks if I'm ill--me, a respectable man
what's maltreated and robbed before his own eyes by them as ought to fall
in humble gratitude at his feet! I'll!--aye, ill with something that's
worse nor any bodily aches and pains--let me tell you that! But not done
for, neither!"

"He's all right," said Copplestone. "That's a flash of his old spirit.
You're all right, Chatfield, aren't you? And who's robbed and maltreated
you--and how and when--especially when--did you come here?"

Chatfield looked up at his old assailant with a glare of dislike.

"You keep your tongue to yourself, young feller!" he growled. "I
shouldn't never ha' been here at all if it hadn't been for the likes of
you--a pokin' your nose where it isn't wanted. It's 'cause o' you three
comin' aboard