These are supposed to be materialistic times, when everything is held to have some discoverable natural cause, and the failure of the trap is explained by the wood of it being swollen, and jamming every time a weight was placed upon it. But the affair was so remarkable, that very naturally the whole country was deeply stirred. Those who were present never lightly dismissed the subject, and for one’s self, it seems very like God’s protest against man’s injustice. But we, who were not present and are not thrown off our balance by the dreadful experience, _must_ consider that in the long history of the world many innocent persons have been hanged, and Providence stirred no finger on their behalf, while many assassins have escaped the Avenger of Blood. It should be said that local opinion has always been strong in the belief of Lee’s guilt. The house, one is glad to say, exists no longer. Only an outhouse which belonged to it remains, and the rest of the site is dense with trees and undergrowth. In spite of repeated rumours of his release, Lee is still in prison, nor does it appear likely that he will ever be permitted to go at liberty again. One of the most famous spots on this coast is that to which we now come. Anstey’s Cove has been described and pictured times innumerable, and I—ah! me—am going to do it again. The way to the Cove lies in between the inevitable dead walls of the district: _these_ the high and solid ones built by Bishop Phillpotts of Exeter some fifty years since, to enclose the grounds of his villa of “Bishopstowe” and keep the public out of all possible glimpses of this paradise: highly characteristic of a bishop. These walls must have been extremely ugly when newly built, but nature, more kindly than the dignified clergy, has toned down the rawness, assuaged the harsh lines and set a green mantle over the bishop’s walls, so that they are now stony cliffs, lichened and moss-grown, rich in tiny ferns, and overhung by tall trees. The bishop was, like many of the cloth, a man of sarcastic wit; for when a lady, visiting him at Bishopstowe, gushingly exclaimed how like Torquay was to Switzerland, he retorted very neatly with, “Yes, only _there_ you have mountains and no sea, and here we have sea and no mountains.” Anstey’s Cove is the same as ever: one of the few places that have not changed of late years. Still the path leads down ruggedly to the little beach of big white marble pebbles, still the hollow is filled with a wild ferny brake and with old thorn-trees, hung, like the liana-choked forest trees of South America, with tangled strands of wild clematis. And although the original Thomas, who, half a century ago supplied picnics with necessaries, has long since assumed his crown and robe of white up above, the poetic notice-board written for him still survives, and Thomases of a later generation are to be found in their wooden shanty on the beach, where they continue the traditions—or some of them—of: