to your supper. It was to be on the chap of nine."

"I'm going back to that place."

The man was clearly demented and must be humoured. "Well, you must
wait till the morn's morning. It's very near dark now, and those
are two ugly customers wandering about yonder. You'd better sleep
the night on it."

Mr. Heritage seemed to be persuaded. He suffered himself to be
led up the now dusky slopes to the gate where the road from
the village ended. He walked listlessly like a man engaged in
painful reflection. Once only he broke the silence.

"You heard the singing?" he asked.

Dickson was a very poor hand at a lie. "I heard something,"
he admitted.

"You heard a girl's voice singing?"

"It sounded like that," was the admission. "But I'm thinking it
might have been a seagull."

"You're a fool," said the Poet rudely.

The return was a melancholy business, compared to the bright speed
of the outward journey. Dickson's mind was a chaos of feelings,
all of them unpleasant. He had run up against something which he
violently, blindly detested, and the trouble was that he could