"I am afraid," the little fair man said, "that it is not an hospitable village. I tried to get a room elsewhere, but, alas! with no success. They do not seem to want tourists at St. Étarpe." Wrayson looked at the knapsack, at the camera, and at the little man himself. He spoke English easily, and without any trace of an accent. His clothes, too, had the look of having come from an English ready-made shop. Yet there was something about the man himself not altogether British. "I fancy the people are busy getting ready for the harvest," Wrayson remarked at last. "You will find lots of places as pretty as this along the coast." "Perhaps so," the visitor admitted, "and yet when one has taken a fancy to a place, it seems a pity to have to leave it so soon. You couldn't speak a word to the landlord for me, sir, I suppose--you or your friend. I don't fancy he understood my French very well." Wrayson shook his head. "I'm afraid it wouldn't be any use," he said. "As a matter of fact, I know that he does not intend to take any more visitors. He has not the staff to deal with them." "It is a pity," the little man said dejectedly. "I think that I must try again in the village. By the by, sir, perhaps you can tell me to whom the château there belongs?" "Madame la Baronne de Sturm," Wrayson answered. "At least, so our host told me yesterday." "It is a very beautiful place--very beautiful," the tourist said reverently. "I dare say there is a chapel there, too! Can one gain admission there, do you know, sir?" Wrayson laid down his knife and fork. "Look here," he said good-humouredly, "I'm not a guide-book, you know, and I only arrived here yesterday myself. You've reached the limit of my information. You had better try the landlord. He will tell you all that you want to know." Duncan pushed his chair back. He had eaten very little luncheon, but he was filling his pipe preparatory to leaving the table. As soon as it began to draw, he rose and turned to Wrayson. The little tourist he absolutely ignored, as he had done all the time during the meal. "I should like a word with you before you go out," he said. Wrayson nodded, and followed him in a few minutes to the summer-house at the end of the lawn. Duncan did not beat about the bush. "That little brute over there," he said, inclining his head towards the table, "is neither an Englishman nor a tourist. I have seen him before, and I never forget a face." "What is he then?" Wrayson asked. "Heaven knows what he is now," Duncan answered. "I saw him last at Colenso, where he narrowly escaped being shot for a spy. He is either a Dutchman or a German, and whatever he may be up to here, I'll swear ecclesiastical architecture is not his game."