The village was not large, but decidedly picturesque, being one of those somnolent old-world hamlets beloved of artists and wondered at by tourists. Formerly no strangers came near it, but since the advent of the ubiquitous motor-car it had become quite a centre of interest. This was mainly owing to its squared-towered Norman church, a venerable and stately structure, which was much too large for so small a place. Also there was a Saxon cross on the village green and sundry Roman remains in an adjacent field. Archæologists and antiquarians, together with tourists, chiefly American, frequently came to inspect these objects of interest, and artists often took up their quarters in the Bull Inn to paint the church, the ancient cottages and the surrounding country. It was quite the nook which a student would have loved, but much too quiet for a restless young man such as Owain Hench assuredly was. The quicksilver in his veins never allowed him to remain long in one place, yet even he confessed to feeling the charm of Cookley. No one took much notice of him, for which slight he was thankful. In his shabby suit of blue serge, his woollen shirt and ragged Panama hat, he looked like an ordinary tramp, and those gentry of the road were much too common in Cookley to be even glanced at. Also the night was closing in, and in the soft warm twilight the young man passed almost unheeded, a fact upon which he afterwards had reason to congratulate himself. After wandering through several crooked streets, he emerged into the gracious spaces of the village green and made for the Bull Inn--easily recognized by its gigantic sign--where he treated himself to a tankard of beer in the tap-room. Owain really did not require the drink, but ordered it so as to give some excuse for his questions. The ancients of the village were already gathered for their evening symposium, and the room was filled with the blue haze of tobacco-smoke. It was none too well lighted by a solitary oil lamp, and Hench sat down in a secluded corner to enjoy his briar and sip his ale. Also, when occasion served, he asked the buxom wench who attended to thirsty customers where the Gipsy Stile was to be found. She looked at him in surprise. "Why, every one hereabouts knows where that be." "I am a stranger here." "One of them tramps, ain't you?" said the girl, tossing her head. "Well, you can't miss the Gipsy Stile. There's a path leading out of the churchyard, across the meadows, and that takes you into the heart of the wood, where you'll find it right in your way." "Oh, it's in a wood, is it?" questioned Owain, secretly wondering again, as he had wondered before, why such a rendezvous had been chosen. "Why, yes. Parley Wood, it is called, and lies long-side Squire Evans' old house. There's only a red brick wall divides the wood from the park."