smile. "One does learn a trick or two in France. You couldn't see their
faces, I suppose?"

"No; too dark. I didn't dare show a light, though I had one. Besides,
their backs were towards me. One looked tall and thin, the other short
and stumpy. But I should never be able to swear to either."

"And they went off in different directions, you say?"

"Yes, the tall one towards Sprotsfield, the short one back towards
Inkston."

"Oh, the short stumpy one it was who turned back to Inkston?" Beaumaroy
had seated himself on a low three-legged stool, opposite to the big
chair where Alec sat, and was smoking his pipe, his hands clasped round
his knees. "It doesn't seem to me to come to much, though I'm much
obliged to you all the same. The short one's probably a local, the other
a stranger, and the local was probably seeing his friend part of the way
home, and incidentally showing him one of the sights of the neighborhood.
There are stories about this old den, you know--ancient traditions. It's
said to be haunted, and what not."

"Funnily enough, we had the story to-night at dinner, at our house."

"Had you now?" Beaumaroy looked up quickly. "What, all about--"

"Captain Duggle, and the Devil, and the grave, and all that."

"Who told you the story?"