I read on until the sun had gone down and the shades of twilight had chased the afterglow from the western sky. Then I closed the book and rose suddenly with a great start. Scarcely a dozen yards away, on the extreme summit of the hill, a man on horseback sat watching me. His unusually tall figure and the fine shape of the coal-black horse which he was riding, stood out against the background of the distant sky with a vividness which seemed almost more than natural. Such a face as his I had never seen, never imagined. I could neither describe it, nor think of anything with which to compare it. Dark, with jet-black hair, and complexion perfectly clear, but tanned by Southern suns; a small, firm mouth; a high forehead, furrowed with thought; aquiline nose; grey-blue eyes, powerful and expressive--any man might thus be described, and yet lack altogether the wonderful charm of the face into which I looked. It was the rare combination of perfect classical modelling with intensity of character and nobility of intellect. It was the face of a king among men; and yet there were times when a certain smile played around those iron lips, and a certain light flashed in those brilliant eyes, when to look into it made me shudder. But that was afterwards. He remained looking at me and I at him, for fully a minute. Then he beckoned to me with his whip--a slight but imperious gesture. I rose and walked to his side. "Who are you?" he asked curtly. "My name is Philip Morton," I answered. "I live at Rothland Wood farmhouse." "Son of the man who was murdered?" I assented. He gazed at me fixedly, with the faintest possible expression of interest in his languid grey eyes. "You were very intent upon your book," he remarked. "What was it?" I held it up. "You should know it, sir," I answered. He glanced at the title and shrugged his shoulders slightly. There were indications of a frown upon his fine forehead. "You should be able to employ your time better than that," he said. "I don't think so. I am fond of reading--especially poetry," I replied. The idea seemed to amuse him, for he smiled, and the stem lines in his countenance relaxed for a moment. Directly his lips were parted his whole expression was transformed and I understood what women had meant when they talked about the fascination of his face. "Fond of reading, are you? A village bookworm. Well, they say that to book-lovers every volume has a language and a mission of its own. What do my schoolboy voices tell you?" "That you were once in love," I answered quickly. A half-amused, half-contemptuous shade passed across his face. "Youth has its follies, like every other stage of life," he said. "I daresay I experienced the luxury of the sensation once, but it must have been a long time ago. Come, is that all it tells you?" "It tells me that men lie when they call you an Atheist." He sat quite still on his horse and the smile on his lips became a mocking one.