She showed him the caves, which tradition said had been formerly used as wreckers’ haunts and treasure stores, but which were now washed by the sea, and covered with slimy weeds; then she brought him to a promontory where they told her she herself had been found. This spot Brinkley examined curiously, then he looked at the girl. “I suppose you had clothes on when you came ashore, didn’t you, Matt?” “Why, of course, I had. William Jones has got ’em!” “Has he? Where?” “In his cave, I expect.” “His cave! Where is that?” asked Brinkley, becoming very much interested. “Dunno,” returned Matt; “perhaps it’s somewhere hereabout. I’ve seen William Jones come about here, I have, but I never could track him!” Matt’s information on the subject was so vague that it seemed useless to institute a search; so, after a regretful look at the rocks, Brinkley proposed that they should saunter back along the shore. “By the way,” said he, “I want you to introduce me to William Jones.” “To William Jones?” “Yes. Strange as the fancy may seem to you, I should like for once in my life to stand face to face with a real live wrecker.” They made their way back along the coast, until they reached William Jones’s cottage. Here they paused, principally for Brinkley to take a glance at the quaint dwelling, then they crossed the threshold. What sort of a place he had got into, it was utterly impossible for Brinkley to tell; it was so dark, he could see nothing. Having crossed the threshold, therefore, he paused; but Matt went fearlessly forward, struck a light, and ignited the rushlight on the table. “William Jones,” said she, “here be the painter!” By the light of the flickering rushlight Brinkley now looked about him. At a glance he noted some of the details of the queer little room, then his eye fell upon the occupants, whom, from Matt’s description, he recognized as William Jones and the grizzly author of his being. The old man, who Brinkley perforce admitted certainly bore some resemblance to the Rembrandtish head which Matt had recognized, sat dozing fitfully by the hearth, while his son was busily employed in mending an old lantern. Upon the entrance of Brinkley, the lantern was quickly thrown aside, and William Jones, assuming a most obsequious manner, hastened to give a welcome to the stranger. Brinkley was amused. He accepted William Jones’s offer of a seat, then he lit up his briar-root pipe, and while smoking lazily, he put a few questions to his host. But if he expected to gain information of any kind he was soon undeceived. William Jones was no fool. Combined with excessive avarice, he possessed all the cunning of the fox, and the moment he saw that the stranger was pumping him, he was on his guard. Presently, however, his curiosity gained the day. Categorically, in his turn, he began to question Brinkley about his doings. “I suppose now, master,” said he, “you travel about a deal i’ that cart o’ your’n?”