CHAPTER XXII THE OLD HAND Half-an-hour later, when Vickers regained the top of the cliff and once more looked across the island towards the far-off point, the figure which he had previously seen making for it had turned back, and was plodding steadily across the coarse grass and rock-strewn moorland in his own direction. Chatfield had evidently taken a bird's eye view of the situation from the vantage point of the slope and had come to the conclusion that the higher part of the island was the most likely point from which to attract attention. He came steadily forward, a big, lumbering figure in the light mist, and Vickers as he went on to meet him eyed him with a lively curiosity, wondering what secrets lay carefully locked up in the man's heart and what happened on the _Pike_ that made its captain or its owner bundle Chatfield out of it like a box of bad goods for which there was no more use. And as he speculated, they met, and Vickers saw at once that the old fellow's mood had changed during the night. An atmosphere of smug oiliness sat upon Chatfield in the freshness of the morning, and he greeted the young solicitor in tones which were suggestive of a chastened spirit. "Morning, Mr. Vickers," he said. "A sweetly pretty spot it is that we find ourselves in, sir--nevertheless, one's affairs sometimes makes us long to quit the side of beauty, however much we would tarry by it! In plain words, Mr. Vickers, I want to get out o' this. And I've been looking round, and my opinion is that the best thing we can do is to start as big a fire as we can find stuff for on yon bluff and keep a-feeding on it. In the meantime, while you're considering of that, I'll burn something of my own--I'm weary." He dropped down on a convenient boulder of limestone, settled his big frame comfortably, and producing a pipe and a tobacco pouch, proceeded to smoke. Vickers himself took another boulder and looked inquisitively at his strange companion. He felt sure that Chatfield was up to something. "You say 'we' now," he remarked suddenly. "Last night you said you didn't want to have anything to do with us. We were to keep to ourselves, and--" "Well, well, Mr. Vickers," broke in Chatfield. "One says things at one time that one wouldn't say at another, you know. Facts is facts, sir, and Providence has made us companions in distress. I've naught against you--nor against the girl--as for t'other young man, he's of a interfering nature--but I forgive him--he's young. I don't bear no ill will--things being as they are. I've had time to reflect since last night--and I don't see no reason why Miss Greyle and me shouldn't come to terms--through you." Vickers lighted his own pipe, and took some time over it. "What are you after, Chatfield?" he asked at length. "Something, of course. You say you want to come to terms with Miss Greyle. That, of course, is because you know very well that Miss Greyle is the legal owner of Scarhaven, and that--" Chatfield waved his pipe.