The laird had left his phaeton and two ponies behind him, with the aid
of which my father and I would go the round of the estate doing such
light duties as fall to an agent, or "factor" as it was there called,
while our gentle Esther looked to our household needs, and brightened
the dark old building.

Such was our simple, uneventful existence, until the summer night when
an unlooked-for incident occurred which proved to be the herald of those
strange doings which I have taken up my pen to describe.

It had been my habit to pull out of an evening in the laird's skiff and
to catch a few whiting which might serve for our supper. On this
well-remembered occasion my sister came with me, sitting with her book
in the stern-sheets of the boat, while I hung my lines over the bows.

The sun had sunk down behind the rugged Irish coast, but a long bank of
flushed cloud still marked the spot, and cast a glory upon the waters.
The whole broad ocean was seamed and scarred with crimson streaks. I
had risen in the boat, and was gazing round in delight at the broad
panorama of shore and sea and sky, when my sister plucked at my sleeve
with a little, sharp cry of surprise.

"See, John," she cried, "there is a light in Cloomber Tower!".

I turned my head and stared back at the tall, white turret which peeped
out above the belt of trees. As I gazed I distinctly saw at one of the
windows the glint of a light, which suddenly vanished, and then shone
out once more from another higher up. There it flickered for some time,
and finally flashed past two successive windows underneath before the
trees obscured our view of it. It was clear that some one bearing a