Pyecombe crooks, made in the days when Sussex turned out more iron
than all the counties of England.

It was there that we lay upon that glorious afternoon. If we chose
to roll upon our right sides, the whole weald lay in front of us,
with the North Downs curving away in olive-green folds, with here
and there the snow-white rift of a chalk-pit; if we turned upon our
left, we overlooked the huge blue stretch of the Channel. A convoy,
as I can well remember, was coming up it that day, the timid flock
of merchantmen in front; the frigates, like well-trained dogs, upon
the skirts; and two burly drover line-of-battle ships rolling along
behind them. My fancy was soaring out to my father upon the waters,
when a word from Jim brought it back on to the grass like a broken-
winged gull.

"Roddy," said he, "have you heard that Cliffe Royal is haunted?"

Had I heard it? Of course I had heard it. Who was there in all the
Down country who had not heard of the Walker of Cliffe Royal?

"Do you know the story of it, Roddy?"

"Why," said I, with some pride, "I ought to know it, seeing that my
mother's brother, Sir Charles Tregellis, was the nearest friend of
Lord Avon, and was at this card-party when the thing happened. I
heard the vicar and my mother talking about it last week, and it was
all so clear to me that I might have been there when the murder was
done."

"It is a strange story," said Jim, thoughtfully; "but when I asked