ugh he had the good sense to restrain
criticism within strict limits, and corrected style rather than matter.
He was a writer, an essayist with no slight leaven of the poet, and had
learnt early that the everyday world held naught in common with the
brooding of the soul.

But he was no long-haired dreamer of impossible things. Erect and
square-shouldered, he had passed through Sandhurst into the army, a
profession abandoned because of its humdrum nature, when an unexpectedly
"fat" legacy rendered him independent. He looked exactly what he was, a
healthy, clean-minded young Englishman, with a physique that led to
occasional bouts of fox-hunting and Alpine climbing, and a taste in
literature that brought about the consumption of midnight oil. This
latter is not a mere trope. Steynholme is far removed from such modern
"conveniences" as gas and electricity.

At present he had no more definite object in life than to watch the trout
rising in the pool. He held the fishing rights over half a mile of a
noted river, but, by force of the law of hospitality, as it were, the
stretch of water bordering the lawn was a finny sanctuary. Once, he
halted, and looked fixedly at a dormer window in a cottage just visible
above the trees on the opposite slope. Such a highly presentable young
man might well expect to find a dainty feminine form appearing just in
that place, and eke return the greeting of a waved hand. But the window
remained blank--windows refused to yield any information that
morning--and he passed on.

The lawn dipped gently to the water's edge, until the close-clipped turf
gave way to pebbles and sand. In that spot the river widened and
deepened until its current was hardly perceptible in fine weather. When
the sun was in the west the trees and roofs of Steynholme were so
clearly reflected in the mirror of the pool that a photograph of the
scene needed close scrutiny ere one could determine whether or not it
was being held upside down. But the sun shone directly on the water now,
so the shelving bottom was visible, and Grant's quick eye was drawn to a
rope trailing into the depths, and fastened to an iron staple driven
firmly into the shingle.

He was so surprised that he spoke aloud.

"What in the world is that?" he almost gasped; a premonition of evil was
so strong in him that he actually gazed in stupefaction at a blob of
water and a quick-spreading ring where a fat trout rose lazily in
midstream.

Somehow, too,