"They are called The Skegs. There is a story attached to them, and a ghost." "Yes? What sort of a one?" "Well, it's rather an eerie affair altogether. Most family ghosts haunt the family seat. That of the Dorriens seems to prefer the open air. The story is a very old one. Two Dorriens fell madly in love with the same girl." "Not an uncommon circumstance. And did they fight--or play ecarte for her?" "Neither. One killed the other. It's a long story, and I'm very bad at telling long stories. I always mix up the people and begin by telling the end first. But the end of this one is that The Skegs are haunted by the murderer's ghost, and that it only appears before the death of a Dorrien. Then a black cloud settles down upon the highest of the two rocks, and those who see it can distinctly hear the wild baying of a dog. And it takes the shape of one." "A decidedly uncanny, though not original form, for there's no part of the world without that very phase of apparition," remarks the stranger, gazing thoughtfully at the two great rock towers. "Has anyone ever seen this spectre?" "Yes. When Captain Dorrien was lost in the Alps three years ago, the fishing people in Minchkil Bay say it appeared. They believe in it implicitly. It was seen, too, at just about the time old Squire Dorrien, the General's brother, died at sea." "And do you believe in it?" "I don't know. I suppose not. And yet if I were anywhere near the spot at night I'm sure I should be horribly afraid of seeing it. None of the fishermen like to go near The Skegs at night, but I suppose we ought to rise above such beliefs. Even my father won't say he doesn't believe in it, but he always rather evades the subject, so I don't press it." "Quite right. And who are these Dorriens for whom the laws of Nature condescend to alter their course?" "Ah! Now you're laughing at my story. Never mind. They are the largest landowners hereabouts and their place is Cranston Hall. It lies in a line with that lofty headland--that's Minchkil Beacon--three miles from Wandsborough." "What sort of people are they?" The girl gives a little shrug of her shoulders and makes a distasteful _moue_. "Not nice. At least nobody likes them much. I don't, though I don't know them personally. It's a case of instinctive dislike." "So you indulge in instinctive likes and dislikes," says the stranger with a queer smile. "A very feminine trait."