or any other subject. He was a well-modelled man of great physical
strength, and still agile and lithe for his age; but his hair was an
ugly straw colour and his clean-shorn, pale face lacked any sort of
distinction save an indication of moral purpose, character, and
pugnacity. It was a face well suited to his own requirements, for he
could disguise it easily; but it was not a face calculated to charm
or challenge any woman--a fact he knew well enough.

Tramping forward now, the detective came to a great crater that
gaped on the hillside and stood above the dead quarry workings of
Foggintor. Underneath him opened a cavity with sides two hundred
feet high. Its peaks and precipices fell, here by rough, giant
steps, here stark and sheer over broad faces of granite, where only
weeds and saplings of mountain ash and thorn could find a foothold.
The bottom was one vast litter of stone and fern, where foxgloves
nodded above the masses of debris and wild things made their homes.
Water fell over many a granite shelf and in the desolation lay great
and small pools.

Brendon began to descend, where a sheep track wound into the pit. A
Dartmoor pony and her foal galloped away through an entrance
westerly. At one point a wide moraine spread fanwise from above into
the cup, and here upon this slope of disintegrated granite more
water dripped and tinkled from overhanging ledges of stone. Rills
ran in every direction and, from the spot now reached by the
sportsman, the deserted quarry presented a bewildering confusion of
huge boulders, deep pits, and mighty cliff faces heaving up to
scarps and counter-scarps. Brendon had found the guardian spirit of
the place on a former visit and now he lifted his voice and cried
out.