------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE COTTAGE ON THE FELLS Illustration: Decoration ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE COTTAGE ON THE FELLS --------------------------------------------------------- _By_ H. de VERE STACPOOLE AUTHOR OF “THE CRIMSON AZALEAS,” “THE BLUE LAGOON,” etc., etc. _Toronto_ HENRY FROWDE ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE COTTAGE ON THE FELLS CHAPTER I “WELL,” said Comyns, “I can’t see for the life of me what makes you want to linger on in this benighted hole.” “There are a great many things in this world we can’t see,” replied Hellier. They were standing on the pier at Boulogne, the Folkstone boat was just departing, the east wind was blowing, and over the cold, early spring day the clouds drifted, grey as the cygnet’s feather. Without wishing to paraphrase or parody a famous author, one may say that if one goes over to Boulogne and stands long enough on the pier, one will meet, most possibly, someone one knows—probably one’s tailor. Hellier had come over to Boulogne a fortnight ago to recruit from an attack of influenza; he was a briefless barrister, with two hundred and fifty pounds a year of his own; his chambers were in Clifford’s Inn, and he had a taste for that side of life which lends itself to romantic literature. The novels of Gaboriau, absorbed as a boy, had given him his first impetus towards the law. There is no manner of doubt in the world that housebreaking is the most romantic of the professions; after housebreaking, the profession that helps the housebreaker to escape the law. A great criminal lawyer, with his armful of briefs, was the pictured objective towards which Richard Hellier had set his face; he had been called to the Bar eighteen months now, and his only client up to this had been a dog thief (_item_, convicted). “I suppose there are,” replied Comyns, “but there’s one thing I can, the gangway is going, so long—” He dashed down the gangway, the hawsers were cast off, and the screw churned the steel grey waters of the harbour. Hellier stood with his hands in his overcoat pockets, watching the boat as she passed from sight, and wishing that he was Comyns.