‘Well, no, mate,’ replied the man to Rodley’s question; ‘he ain’t what you’d call rich, not by no means, seein’ that he’s only a half-pay captain. But he’s been richer durin’ this last four year than he wur afore.’ ‘Lives all alone with his daughter, doesn’t he?’ continued Rodley. Mental conclusion previously arrived at by the party is confirmed. ‘Yes,’ replied the man who acted as spokesman; ‘lives with Miss Bertha, the cap’en do. She’s a proper quean, she is. Purtiest slip of a lass in these parts by a long way. But the cap’en he keeps her uncommon close; can’t a-bear her to be out of his sight; and when she goes into town a-marketin’ on Wednesdays, we says it’s about all the life she sees.’ Another silence ensued, during which the half-dozen pairs of eyes were taking stock of Rodley sideways, and endeavouring to solve the problem of his intentions from his dress and appearance. At length Rodley said: ‘Wasn’t there a lugger wrecked off here about four years ago called the _Fancy Lass_?’ ‘Nobody heard of it,’ replied the spokesman. ‘There was a lugger of that name left Saint Quinians about four years agone; but she warn’t never heard of no more; and bein’ a smuggler, that ain’t surprisin’.’ ‘I thought some bodies were washed ashore by the Locket Rock about that time,’ observed Rodley. ‘There’s a sight o’ poor chaps washed ashore hereabouts every gale,’ replied the man. ‘’Tain’t possible allus to say who they be or where they come from. Saint Quinians’ churchyard is full on ’em.’ Not another word was spoken for at least twenty minutes. At the expiration of that time, Rodley rose, went to the door, looked out, remarked that the rain had stopped, put on his overalls, paid his reckoning, wished the company ‘good-night,’ and went out into the darkness. ‘Didn’t get much information out of these chaps!’ he muttered as he pulled his hat down over his face against the driving wind and retraced his steps towards the captain’s house. What with battling against the wind and stumbling about the uneven road in the dark, it was an hour before the solitary light in the captain’s house met Rodley’s gaze. He crossed the small garden and knocked. Bertha opened the door, and asked timidly: ‘Who is it?’ ‘I—Jasper Rodley,’ was the reply. She uttered a cry of alarm, and would have shut the door, but that Rodley had placed his foot in the opening. The captain hearing his daughter’s cry, came hobbling along the passage hastily. When he beheld Rodley, a cloud came over his face, and he said: ‘Hillo, mate, what is it at this time o’ night?’ ‘I want a bed for to-night, and a few words with you, captain,’ said Rodley, who by this time was fairly inside the house, and coolly taking his hat and coat off. ‘But I’ve no room here. There’s an inn farther down, where they’ll put you up better than we can.’ ‘I’m a sailor, captain,’ replied Rodley, ‘and I don’t mind where I shake down: that’s of no consequence, but the talk is.’