But behind me, coming from the village, I heard the sound of light and rapid footsteps. I turned my head. It was Blanche Moyat, short-skirted, a stick in her hand, a feather stuck through her Tam-o'-Shanter. "Good-morning," she cried out heartily; "I've been to call at your cottage." "Very kind of you," I answered, hesitatingly. Miss Moyat was good-hearted, but a little overpowering--and in certain moods she reminded me of her father. "Oh, I had an errand," she explained, laughing. "Father said if I saw you I was to say that he has to call on the Duke this afternoon, and, if you liked, he would explain about your lecture last night, and try and get the village hall for you for nothing. The Duke is very good-natured, and if he knows that he spoilt your evening, father thinks he might let you have it for nothing." "It is very kind of your father," I answered. "I do not think that I shall ever give that lecture again." "Why not?" she protested. "I am sure I thought it a beautiful lecture, and I'm not keen on churches and ruins myself," she added, with a laugh which somehow grated upon me. "What are you doing here?" "Watching the dead," I answered grimly. She looked at me for an explanation. I pointed to the dark object by the side of the creek. She gave a violent start. Then she screamed and caught hold of my arm. "Mr. Ducaine!" she cried. "What is it?" "A dead man!" I answered. Her face was a strange study. There was fear mingled with unwholesome curiosity, the heritage of her natural lack of refinement. She leaned over the palings. "Oh, how horrible!" she exclaimed. "I don't know whether I want to look or not. I've never seen any one dead." "I should advise you," I said, "to go away." It was apparently the last thing she desired to do. Of the various emotions which had possessed her, curiosity was the one which survived. "You are sure he is dead?" she asked. "Quite," I answered. "Was he drowned, then?" "I think," I replied, "that he has been washed up by the tide. There has probably been a shipwreck." "Gracious!" she exclaimed. "It is just a sailor, then?" "I have not looked at his face," I answered, "and I should not advise you to. He has been tossed about and injured. His clothes, though, are not a seaman's." She passed through a gap in the palings. "I must look just a little closer," she exclaimed. "Do come with me, Mr. Ducaine. I'm horribly afraid." "Then don't go near him," I advised. "A dead man is surely not a pleasant spectacle for you. Come away, Miss Moyat." But she had advanced to within a couple of yards of him. Then she stopped short, and a little exclamation escaped from her lips. "Why, Mr. Ducaine," she cried out, "this is the very man who stopped me last night outside our house, and asked the way to your cottage." CHAPTER IV MISS MOYAT'S PROMISE