"I like your face," the young man continued earnestly. "If you saw the faces of the people who are staying at the Grange, you would know what I mean. They all look as though they wanted something. They remind me sometimes of a pack of hounds. And they pretend not to, but they are always watching me." We had been so engrossed in the self-disclosures of this half-witted young man that we had not noticed the approach of another promenader along the sands. It was a very different person who now accosted us, hat in hand and a courteous smile upon his lips. There was not a single criticism in which the most fastidious might indulge against Hilary Duncombe's address, his manners or his clothes. "Good morning! I am glad to see that my young ward has been finding friends." The young man scrambled at once to his feet and stood, awkward and speechless, a little apart. His tutor, the very prototype of kindly and aristocratic ease, addressed a few kindly remarks to us. "I am so thankful," he went on, "when Arthur finds courage to speak to any one. He is a good boy, but he finds conversation with strangers as a rule difficult." "We haven't found him at all shy," Rose assured him, with a smile at the subject of these remarks. "On the contrary, he has been entertaining us quite nicely." Mr. Duncombe appeared to find Rose's favourable judgment a matter for personal gratification. "You are very kind," he said. "I am sure that Arthur has already told you how charmed we were with your performance last night. My guests are agitating for a permanent change in our dinner hour, that we may be more frequent attendants." "How nice!" Rose murmured. "It does make quite a difference to see some civilised people in the reserved seats." "My sister," Duncombe continued, "would be delighted to make your acquaintance. We may, perhaps, persuade you to pay us a little visit at the Grange after the performance one evening. Arthur," he went on, "we must get back now. Ella is waiting for a set of tennis." They moved off together. The impression they left behind was an unpleasant one. "A second Ardalmont case," Leonard suggested. "In which case," I reflected gloomily, "the mystery of our presence here is solved." We were a little depressed as we returned to the hotel--a long, grey-stone building, once a farmhouse and still entirely unpretentious. Our worst prognostications were promptly verified. The maidservant who waited upon us in the coffee room brought me a note with a typewritten address. "This was left here by a motor-cyclist soon after you went out, sir," she announced. I tore open the envelope and we pored over it: Accept any hospitality proffered from the Grange. Encourage the young man, Arthur Dompers, to talk, watch Duncombe, and report on the situation.