“Nothing strange except to me. It is only one more in a sequence of coincidences which concern me alone. I came to this part of Scotland to discover a secret of the past, Mr. Jerningham, and perhaps you can help me to penetrate that mystery. Four-and-twenty years ago, Lord Pendarvoch lent his shooting-box yonder to a gentleman whose name I want to know. Can you tell me if I shall find any old servant at Pendarvoch likely to be able to answer this question for me, or do you yourself know enough of your kinsman’s friends at that period, as to be able to give me the information I seek.” To these inquiries Mr. Jerningham had listened gravely, with his face somewhat averted from the speaker. “No,” he replied, coldly, “I knew very few of Pendarvoch’s friends. I cannot help you to identify the person who may have borrowed his house a quarter of a century ago. Every man makes a _tabula rasa_ of his memory half a dozen times within such a period. Existence would be unbearable if our memories wore so well as you seem to suppose they do. As to my cousin’s old servants, they are all dead or imbecile. If you want information, you may spare yourself the trouble of going to Pendarvoch, and question these marble columns. They will tell you as much as the Pendarvoch servants.” “Do not think me obstinate if I put that to the test. I have determined not to leave a stone unturned.” “I cannot understand your eagerness to pry into the secrets of the past. I begin to fancy you are hunting some lost estate--perhaps plotting to dispossess me.” “No, Mr. Jerningham, it is not an estate I am hunting; it is a lost name.” “You appear to delight in enigmas. I do not.” “I will not bore you with any further talk of my affairs. And this temple is yours, Mr. Jerningham. I may never see it again. Forgive me if I ask you not to pull it down. Let it stand. For me it is sacred as a tomb.” Harold Jerningham stared aghast at the speaker. A question rose to his lips, but his voice failed him, and it remained unspoken. He stood pale, breathless, watching the young man as he bent his knee upon one of the steps of the temple, and gathered a handful of the wild flowers that clustered about the stone. “Your friends and I are to dine at Killalochie,” he said, presently, while Eustace’s head was still bent over the flowers; “we both return by the same road, I suppose?” “I think not; the tide is low, and I have set my heart upon going back by the sands.” “Do you think it quite safe to venture?” “I should imagine so. At Halko’s Head they told me the way was safe at low tide.” “But are you sure the tide is on the ebb?” “It looks like it.” “I would warn you to be cautious. The tide upon this part of the coast is dangerous, at least I have heard people say as much.” “I am not afraid,” answered Eustace, with some touch of bitterness. “A man whose life is hardly worth keeping may defy fortune.”