he bought it, from a man who I think must have been some relative
of your friend. I feel sure the name was Fentolin."

Reginald Kinsley set down his wine-glass.

"Is your St. David's Tower anywhere near a place called Salthouse?"
he asked reflectively.

"That's the name of the village," Hamel admitted. "My father used
to spend quite a lot of time in those parts, and painted at least a
dozen pictures down there."

"This is a coincidence," Reginald Kinsley declared, lighting a
cigarette. "I think, if I were you, Dick, I'd go down and claim
my property."

"Tired of me already?" Hamel asked, smiling.

Reginald Kinsley knocked the ash from his cigarette.

"It isn't that. The fact is, that job I was speaking to you about
was simply this. We want some one to go down to Salthouse--not
exactly as a spy, you know, but some one who has his wits about him.
We are all of us very curious about this man Fentolin. There are
no end of rumours which I won't mention to you, for they might only
put you off the scent. But the man seems to be always intriguing.
It wouldn't matter so much if he were our friend, or if he were
simply a financier, but to tell you the truth, we have cause to
suspect him."