Around a roaring fire in a little, lone, beetle-browed inn which stood by the sea about six miles from Saint Quinians, known as the _Lobster_, were assembled one evening, about a week after the events recorded in the last chapter, some half-dozen men, whose apparel and appearance proclaimed them fisher-folk. They were sitting simply smoking and drinking, not speaking, for it may be noted that men whose lives are spent in one continual struggle with danger and death are generally silent. It was a wild, wet evening, although it was April, and the great waves were tumbling on the rocky shore with a booming which never ceased, and which was audible above the roar of the wind and the rattle of the rain against the rickety casements, so that the assembly was not a little astonished to hear the voice of the landlord talking with a stranger, and presently to see a tall man, clad from head to foot in waterproofs, enter. All eyes were instantly fixed on him in a suspicious sort of manner, and more than one man rose, for in these days, coast-folk enjoyed almost as little peace on land as at sea, as preventive men were continually poking about in search of smugglers, and the pressgang was hard at work collecting hands for His Majesty’s ships. But as the newcomer was alone, and saluted them with a ‘good-evening’ as he divested himself of his reeking overalls, their momentary alarm seemed to subside, and they made a space for him in the circle round the fire. The visitor, who was no other than Jasper Rodley, ordered a stiff tumbler of grog and a new pipe, took his seat, and gazed intently at the leaping flames for some moments without speaking. ‘It’s a wretched evening for a walk,’ he said presently; a remark which elicited a gruff murmur of assent from the circle; ‘and the road from Saint Quinians is as hard to follow as the course between Deadland Shoal and the Painter Buoy,’ he continued. He was evidently a sailor, so that eyes were again fixed on him with something of the original suspicion. There was another pause, during which pipes were puffed vigorously and more than one mug emptied. Jasper Rodley broke the silence. ‘Doesn’t a Captain West live somewhere hereabouts?’ he asked. ‘Yes, sir,’ replied a man. ‘Can’t mistake the house—a long white un, standing in a bit o’ garden with a flagstaff in it, about two miles towards the town.’ ‘Strange sort of man, isn’t he?’ asked Rodley. ‘Well, sir, he’s strange in some things; but nobody don’t know any harm of him,’ replied the man; ‘’cos it’s precious little folk see of him.’ ‘Said to be very rich, isn’t he?’ asked Rodley. This question brought the eyes of the party to bear again upon the speaker, the problem troubling the rude minds being: ‘If this chap wants to see the captain, and hails from Saint Quinians, why on earth does he go two miles farther than he need?’ Mental conclusion arrived at—stranger up to no good.