This much--full confirmation of Dion’s story--the woman could tell Eustace; but no more. The name of these southern strangers she had never heard, or, having heard, had utterly forgotten. Of their condition, whence they came, and how they had obtained license to occupy Lord Pendarvoch’s house, she was equally ignorant. Nor could she direct Eustace to any inhabitant of the village likely to know more than herself. There had not been for years any care taken of the shooting-box. Lord Pendarvoch was just dead. His old steward had died six years before, and a new man from the south--“folks were all for southrons noo”--had succeeded to his post. Pendarvoch Castle was a day’s journey off, on the other side of the county. To obtain further information seemed hopeless; but Eustace was determined to leave no stone unturned. Why should he not go to Pendarvoch Castle before he left Scotland, see the old servants?--for old servants there must be in a large household, whatever changes time and death might have brought about in four-and-twenty years. Some one there might be who would remember to whom Lord Pendarvoch had lent his house in that particular year. It was at least a chance, and Eustace resolved upon trying it. He questioned his hostess as to the way back to Killalochie. She told him that there were two ways, one by the sands at low tide, the shorter of the two, since there was an inlet of the sea between Halko’s Head and Killalochie, which was dry at low tide. It was a place that strangers went to see, the dame told Eustace, because of a cavern dug in the face of the cliff, that a saint lived in once upon a time--“joost a wee bit cavey,” the good woman called it. Eustace thanked his hostess for her civility, paid her liberally for his humble refreshment, and bade her good-day, after inquiring his way to the disused abode of Lord Pendarvoch. This dwelling he found easily enough. It was built in a hollow of the cliff, about a quarter of a mile from the village, midway between the fishermen’s cottages and the classic temple. The house was small, but built in the Gothic style, and with some attempt at the picturesque. “Decay’s effacing fingers,” however, had done their worst. The stucco had peeled off wherever there was stucco to peel; the stone was stained with damp, and disfigured with patches of moss; the woodwork rotted for want of an occasional coat of paint. A scanty grove of firs sheltered the house on its seaward side, and tossed their dark branches drearily in the spring breeze, as Eustace opened the rusty iron gate and entered the small domain. No element of desolation was wanting to the dreary picture. A bony goat cropped the stunted grass pensively, but fled at sound of the intruder’s footfall.