No sooner was he left to his own meditations, which the faithful Tim (who had fortunately been away on a foraging expedition during the episode described in my last chapter) was not at hand to disturb, than our young gentleman began puzzling his brains over the curious information she had given him. The facts, which he had no reason to question, ranged themselves under four heads:-- 1. Matt had been cast ashore, fifteen years previously, at an age when she could pronounce the word “Papa.” It followed as a rational argument that she had been, say, one year old, or thereabouts. 2. Mr. Monk had found her, and given her into the care of William Jones, and had since given that worthy sums of money for taking care of her. _Query_, What reason had the said Monk for exhibiting so much care for the child, unless he were a person of wonderfully benevolent disposition, which my hero was not at all inclined to believe? 3. Said Monk and said Jones were on very familiar terms, which was curious, seeing the difference in their social positions. _Query_ again, Was there any private reason, any mysterious knowledge, any secret shared in common, which bound their interests together? 4. Last and most extraordinary of all, said Monk had now expressed his wish and intention of _marrying_ the waif he had rescued from the sea, committed to the care of said Jones, and brought up in ragged ignorance, innocent of grace or grammar, on that lonely shore. _Query_ again, and again, and yet again, What the deuce had put the idea into Monk’s head; and was there at the bottom of it any deeper and more conceivable motive than the one of ordinary affection for a pretty, if uncultivated, child? The more Charles Brinkley pondered all these questions, the more hopelessly puzzled he became. But his curiosity, once roused, could not rest. He determined, if possible, to get to the midriff of the mystery. So intent was he on this object, which fitted in beautifully with his natural indolence, that he at once knocked off painting for the day, and after breakfasting on the fare with which Tim had by this time appeared, he strolled away towards the sea shore. He had not gone far when he saw approaching him a tall figure which he seemed to recognize. It came closer, and he saw that it was Mr. Monk of Monkshurst. This time Monk was on foot. He wore a dark dress, with knickerbockers and heavy shooting boots, and carried a gun. A large dog, of the species lurcher, followed at his heels. Brinkley was passing by without any salutation when, to his surprise, the other paused and lifted his hat. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “We have met once before; and I think I have to-apologize to you for unintentional incivility. The fact is--h’m--I mistook you for a--vagrant! I did not know you were a gentleman.” So staggered was the artist with this greeting, that he could only borrow the vocabulary of Mr. Toots-- “Oh, it’s of no consequence,” he said, attempting to pass on.