woods; yearly the county authorities determined to cut away its thick
undergrowth--and yearly left it alone. On the left the road was bare
for some distance along the bluff; then, bending, it again sought the
shelter of the trees and meandered along until it lost itself in the
main street of Sihasset, a village large enough to support three banks
and, after a fashion, eight small churches. In front, had the lounger
cared to look, he would have seen the huge rocks topping the bluff
against which the ocean dashed itself into angry foam. But the man
didn't care to look--for in the little clearing between the wall of
Killimaga and the bluff road was peace too profound to be wantonly
disturbed by motion. And so he lay there lazily smoking his cigar, his
long length concealed by the tall grass.

Hearing a slight click behind him and to his right, the man slowly,
even languidly, turned his head to peer through the grass. But his
energy was unrewarded, for he saw nothing he had not seen before--a
long wall, its rough stones half hidden by creeping vines, at its base
a rank growth of shrubs and wild hedge; behind it, in the near
distance, the towers of a house that, in another land, perched amid
jutting crags, would have inspired visions of far-off days of romance.
Even in its New England setting the great house held a rugged charm,
heightened by the big trees which gave it a setting of rich green.
Some of the trees had daringly advanced almost to the wall itself,
while one--a veritable giant--had seemingly been caught while just
stepping through.

With a bored sigh, as if even so slight an effort were too great, the
smoker settled himself more comfortably and resumed his indolent
musing. Then he heard the sound again. This time he did not trouble
to look around. Something white swished quickly past him and he