shaken hands with a woman. Afterwards he rubbed his fingers slowly
together. There was something about the touch which worried him.

"You have been making use of this little shanty, haven't you?" he
asked bluntly.

Mr. Fentolin nodded. He was apparently beginning to recover
himself.

"You must remember," he explained suavely, "that it was built by my
grandfather, and that we have had rights over the whole of the
foreshore here from time immemorial. I know quite well that my
brother gave it to your father--or rather he sold it to him for a
nominal sum. I must tell you that it was a most complicated
transaction. He had the greatest difficulty in getting any lawyer
to draft the deed of sale. There were so many ancient rights and
privileges which it was impossible to deal with. Even now there
are grave doubts as to the validity of the transaction. When nothing
was heard of you, and we all concluded that you were dead, I ventured
to take back what I honestly believed to be my own. Owing," he
continued slowly, "to my unfortunate affliction, I am obliged to
depend for interest in my life upon various hobbies. This little
place, queerly enough, has become one of them. I have furnished it,
in a way; installed the telephone to the house, connected it with
my electric plant, and I come down here when I want to be quite
alone, and paint. I watch the sea--such a sea sometimes, such
storms, such colour! You notice that ridge of sand out yonder? It
forms a sort of natural breakwater. Even on the calmest day you
can trace that white line of foam."