“I won’t tell all I know,” he said, “but I can tell you this hermit lives like a prince. He’s got handsomer furniture than there is in any house in Cook’s Harbor.” No one had told the fisherman this, but he knew the statement would make a sensation and chose to embellish what he had heard from Robert. “That’s a strange idea to furnish a cave that way,” said the stranger. “It may be strange, but it’s true.” “Do you think he keeps a good deal of money by him?” asked the stranger with evident interest. John Trafton nodded significantly. The conversation now drifted into other channels. The stranger ordered another glass of whisky and went out. “Where is that man staying?” asked Cummings. “Not here,” answered the landlord. “I don’t like his looks and don’t care where he stays as long as he don’t ask for a room here.” “You don’t mind selling him drink, landlord?” “Not as long as he’s got money to pay. That’s a different matter.” A few minutes later John Trafton left the tavern. He had drunk considerable, but not enough to make him incapable of action. The drink excited him and nerved him for the task he had in view, for upon this very evening he had decided to force an entrance into the hermit’s mysterious residence, and he hoped to be well paid for his visit. He had to pass his own cabin on the way. He glanced toward it and saw a light shining through the window, but he took care to keep far enough away so that he might not be seen. Half a mile farther and he stood opposite the cavern. There was the ladder making access to the cave easy. He looked for the hermit’s boat, which was usually kept fastened near the entrance to the cave, and to his joy he saw that it was missing. “The old man must be out in his boat,” he said to himself. “All the better for me! If I am quick, I may get through before he gets back.” With a confident step he ascended the ladder and entered what might be called the vestibule of the cave. He halted there to light the candle he had brought with him. He was bending over, striking the match against his foot, when he was attacked from behind and almost stunned by a very heavy blow. He recovered himself sufficiently to grasp his assailant, and in an instant the two were grappling in fierce conflict. “I never thought the old man was so strong,” passed through the fisherman’s mind as he found himself compelled to use his utmost strength against his opponent. CHAPTER XIX A TRAGEDY ON THE BEACH It is hardly necessary to say that the man with whom the fisherman was engaged in deadly conflict was not the hermit. It was the stranger who, in the tavern, had manifested so much curiosity on the subject of the rich residents of Cook’s Harbor. He was a desperado from New York, who, being too well known to the police of that city, had found it expedient to seek a new field, where he would not excite suspicion.