his pocket and began to fill it with tobacco from a battered silver
box, "is a queer fix. Looks rather like the inn for me!"

"And who might you be, gentleman?"

He turned abruptly around towards his unseen questioner. A woman
was standing by the side of the rock upon which he was sitting, a
woman from the village, apparently, who must have come with
noiseless footsteps along the sandy way. She was dressed in rusty
black, and in place of a hat she wore a black woolen scarf tied
around her head and underneath her chin. Her face was lined, her
hair of a deep brown plentifully besprinkled with grey. She had a
curious habit of moving her lips, even when she was not speaking.
She stood there smiling at him, but there was something about that
smile and about her look which puzzled him.

"I am just a visitor," he replied. "Who are you?"

She shook her head.

"I saw you come out of the Tower," she said, speaking with a strong
local accent and yet with a certain unusual correctness, "in at the
window and out of the door. You're a brave man."

"Why brave?" he asked.

She turned her head very slowly towards St. David's Hall. A gleam
of sunshine had caught one of the windows, which shone like fire.
She pointed toward it with her head.