The sun was getting low, as Mr. Fogo and Caleb stepped ashore on the
ruined quay at Kit's House, not far from the spit of land where the
lazars were buried. Kit's Cottage stood plain to see at a short
distance from the water, but Kit's House lay to the right, behind its
screen of laurels and elms. A narrow flight of steps and a path
along the cliff's edge brought the visitors to the front door.

It was a long, low house, with pointed windows on the upper storey,
and a deep verandah shading the ground-floor rooms. It faced the
south, and although few flowers were out, the ruined garden was
luxuriant with decay. One could see where the old Lazar-house had
been overlaid with the taste of more recent inhabitants, but, as
Caleb said, no one had lived here now for a dozen years or more.
The walls were smeared with green vegetation; the iron gate creaked
heavily with rust. On the roof the stonecrop flourished, and the
swallows had built their nests about the chimneys.

Indoors it was as bad. Rich papers hung and rotted from the walls;
rats scampered about the floors overhead; a smell of damp and
mouldiness pervaded every room.

"Deary me, sir!" said Caleb in despair, "I'd no idee 'twas as bad as
this, or I wou'dn' have mentioned the place to 'ee."

An old barrel stood on end before the French-window of the
drawing-room. Mr. Fogo seated himself on this, and gazed
meditatively out on the mellow glory of the evening.

"Caleb," he said very quietly, after a while, "I think I shall take
this house."