smoking an old briar pipe sat a bent fisherman clad in an oilskin
coat and hat and heavy, ungainly boots. About his neck was a long
woolen muffler which concealed the lower part of his face quite as
effectually as his scraggly, grizzled whiskers.

Suddenly, he seemed to discover something that interested him,
slowly rose, then turned and almost ran up the shore. Quickly he
dropped behind a large rock and waited, peering out.

As the limousine bearing the stranger, on whom the fisherman had
kept his eyes riveted, turned and drove away, the old salt rose
from behind his rock, gazed after the car as if to fix every line
of it in his memory and then he, too, quickly disappeared up the
road.

The stranger's car had scarcely disappeared when the fisherman
turned from the shore road into a clump of stunted trees and made
his way to a hut. Not far away stood a small, unpretentious closed
car, also with a driver.

"I shall be ready in a minute," the fisherman nodded almost
running into the hut, as the driver moved his car up closer to the
door.

The larger motor had disappeared far down the bend of the road
when the fisherman reappeared. In an almost incredible time he had
changed his oilskins and muffler for a dark coat and silk hat. He
was no longer a fisherman, but a rather fussy-looking old
gentleman, bewhiskered still, with eyes looking out keenly from a
pair of gold-rimmed glasses.