“Yes, sir. Well, I must be off. Good afternoon, sir. Come into the bar and have one with me afore I go,” he went on to Tom Gale. The latter obeyed the call with ponderous alacrity. The young man remained smoking thoughtfully. Presently the landlady came in to clear away the mugs from the table. “Lor’ sir,” she said, “ain’t you goin’ out paintin’ this beautiful afternoon?” He shook his head. “I’m not in the mood,” he said. “Well, sir, why don’t you try a bit o’ fishin’? There’s whitin’ to be caught off the quay head when the tide’s ebbin’. And you’d get a bit o’ bait off of Harry Turner, the second cottage down the road. I know he’s got some.” “No, thank you, Mrs. Yates, I’m going up to my room. I’ve some letters to write.” His bedroom was over the bar parlour. When he reached it he looked out of the window. He took a pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it. But he seemed to have forgotten his letters. Instead of writing, he sat by the window, carefully watching to see if Mr. Templeton came ashore. CHAPTER II The Visit to the Opposite Shore Tom Gale, with the comfortable sensation of the replenishment of his inner man with a double portion of his favourite beverage, went back on board the _Lucy_ and resumed his attitude of leaning over the bulwarks and gazing upon the estuary. Only, this time, he was aft of the schooner instead of forward. The tide had gone down rapidly, and great patches of slimy black mud were showing on either side of the central current. Opposite, just southward of the small landing-stage where the boat was moored, a stony patch ran out into the estuary, banking up the water on the northern side. This made it possible, except at extreme low water, to cross in a small boat from shore to shore without running on the mud. As Tom Gale puffed at his short pipe he was attracted by a noise from the yacht. Looking towards it, he observed that Templeton was hauling the dinghy alongside. “Goin’ ashore,” murmured Tom. Templeton got into the dinghy, cast her off, took the oars, and began rowing across the estuary. To do this he had to head the boat diagonally upstream and to pull with all his might athwart the current. Slowly he crossed over, Tom Gale grunting approval, till he reached the little pool of comparatively calm water formed by the stony patch. Here he got out, took the anchor, hitched it round a big stone, and shoved off the boat to the full length of her painter. Then he walked briskly up the shore and disappeared into the wood—towards the house. The young man watching from the window of the “Mariner’s Arms” had seen Templeton cross over. He put on his hat, came downstairs and strolled out on the quay. Then he stepped aboard the _Lucy_, and began to talk to Tom Gale. Presently he asked, nonchalantly: “Who lives in that house beyond the trees yonder?” pointing to the opposite shore. Tom Gale, who had been up and down the estuary scores of times, and was a confirmed gossip, answered readily: