A little inquiry in the neighbourhood, however, elicited the information that Jones, despite his abject penury, was certainly well-to-do, and had money in the bank of the neighbouring market town; that the ruined village of Abertaw belonged almost entirely to him; and that, in short, he was by nature and habit a miserly person, who would prefer hoarding up whatever he possessed to purchasing with it the commonest necessaries of life. An old coastguard, whom Brinkley found next day on the station, was his chief informant. “Don’t you believe him, sir,” said this old salt, “if he tells you he’s poor. He’s a shark, William Jones is, and couldn’t own up even to his own father. It’s my belief he’s got gold hidden somewheres among them sandhills, let alone what he’s got in the savings bank. Ah, he’s a artful one, is William Jones.” Brinkley had said nothing of his own private suspicions, but had merely introduced in a general way the subject of Jones’s worldly position. Further conversation with Tim, who had made a few straggling acquaintances in the district, corroborated the other testimony. The young man became more and more convinced that William Jones was worth studying. Matt had not turned up that morning. Instead of looking after her, Brinkley took another stroll towards the vicinity of the Devil’s Cauldron. He had not gone far before he discovered that he was watched again. The figure of William Jones followed in the distance, but keeping him well in view. It was certainly curious. He walked over to the cliffs and looked down at the scene of yesterday’s bathing adventure. A strong wind was blowing, and the waves were surging up the rocks with deafening roar and foamy spume. The place looked very ugly, particularly near the Cauldron. All the passage was churned to milky white, and the sound from beneath was, to quote an old simile, like the roar of innumerable chariots. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the head of William Jones eagerly watching, the body being hidden behind an intervening rock. “Strange!” he reflected. “My predatory friend can’t keep his treasure, if he possesses any, down in that watery gulf. Yet whenever I come near it his manner tells me that I am ‘warm,’ as they say in the game of hide and seek.” To test the matter a little further he set off on a brisk walk along the cliffs, leaving the Cauldron behind. He found, as he had suspected, that he was no longer followed. Returning as he came, and resuming his old position, he saw William Jones immediately re-appear. That day he discovered no clue to the mystery, nor the next, nor the next again, though on each day he went through a similar performance. Strange to say, Matt had not put in an appearance, and for reasons of his own he had thought it better not to seek her. On the morning of the third day--a dark chilly morning after a night of rain--Tim put his head into the caravan, where his master was seated at his easel, and grinned delightedly.