After a meal, I started for a twelve-mile drive along the coast, and was able to enjoy to the full the grand scenery that escaped my attention on the afternoon of the previous day. As I drew near to the house, too, I was able to recognize many of the places Roger had mentioned, which made the events connected with them far more real. So real, indeed, were they that once or twice I felt like shuddering as I thought of the feelings that must have possessed him. Especially was this so when I traced the outlines of the "Devil's Tooth," and when I thought I recognized the spot on which Wilfred and Roger had struggled for life. At length I reached the postern door, which had looked so formidable on the previous day, and was again met by the same men I had seen before. The place did not now seem nearly so strange, and I felt as though I were a friend of the Trewinion family, and as if the old house had been long familiar to me. Roger Trewinion welcomed me heartily, and I thought I saw in his face some indications of expectancy. "Well," he said, after I had been seated a few minutes, "you have read the confessions?" "Yes." "And what do you think of them?" "I found them so interesting that I could not leave them until I had read the last word." "And now you understand why I live here like a hermit, and why such strange stories are circulated about me?" "I can see why stories are circulated about you certainly, but I cannot see why you live here so lonely and forsaken." "But you read about the curse, and the way it worked itself out?" "I read what might easily be explained in the light of to-day. Your grandfather saw things through the glasses of the time he wrote. Like all literature, it is a product of the age and surroundings of the writer, and must be judged accordingly." "Ah, but you do not know all that followed. If you did you would not talk thus." "No, I am here to-day to hear more, so interested have I become. I found yesterday that you were a man of culture and intellectual power, and I cannot help wondering that such a story could so influence you." "No, honestly, I do not think I am a fool, and, believe me, I have read and studied, as few men have, in order to free myself from the fear that possesses me. Look at me! I look sixty years of age, and yet I am only fifty. Fear and dread have made me old. Naturally, I am fond of society, but an invisible presence, which always seems to confront me, makes me live alone, without friends, without companionship." "Will you tell me the sequel of what I have read, then?" I said, anxiously, for I was greatly interested. "Yes, I will tell you as plainly as I can. It is said that my grandfather--the writer of the confessions--died a terrible death, and that dread thoughts ever haunted him. Of that, however, I cannot speak authoritatively."