“I am afraid,” he said at last, “I don’t quite understand. You say the poor fellow has taken a fancy to the place and likes being there. Well, it isn’t much of a catch for me, anyway. I’m rather a wanderer, and I dare say I shan’t be back in these parts again for years. Why shouldn’t I let him have it if he wants it? It’s no loss to me. I’m not a painter, you know, like my father.” She seemed on the point of making a further appeal. Her lips, even, were parted, her head a little thrown back. And then she stopped. She said nothing. The silence lasted so long that he became almost embarrassed. “You will forgive me if I am a little dense, won’t you?” he begged. “To tell you the truth,” he went on, smiling, “I’ve got a sort of feeling that I’d like to do anything you ask me. Now won’t you just explain a little more clearly what you mean, and I’ll blow up the old place sky high, if it’s any pleasure to you.” She seemed suddenly to have reverted to her former self--the cold and colourless young woman who had first taken the seat opposite to his. “Mine was a very foolish request,” she admitted quietly. “I am sorry that I ever made it. It was just an impulse, because the little building we were speaking of has been connected with one or two very disagreeable episodes. Nevertheless, it was foolish of me. How long did you think of staying there--that is,” she added, with a faint smile, “providing that you find it possible to prove your claim and take up possession?” “Oh, just for a week or so,” he answered lightly, “and as to regaining possession of it,” he went on, a slightly pugnacious instinct stirring him, “I don’t imagine that there’ll be any difficulty about that.” “Really!” she murmured. “Not that I want to make myself disagreeable,” he continued, “but the Tower is mine, right enough, even if I have let it remain unoccupied for some time.” She let down the window--a task in which he hastened to assist her. A rush of salt, cold air swept into the compartment. He sniffed it eagerly. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. She stretched out a long arm and pointed. Away in the distance, on the summit of a line of pebbled shore, standing, as it seemed, sheer over the sea, was a little black speck. “That,” she said, “is the Tower.” He changed his position and leaned out of the window. “Well, it’s a queer little place,” he remarked. “It doesn’t look worth quarrelling over, does it?” “And that,” she went on, directing his attention to the hill, “is Mr. Fentolin’s home, St. David’s Hall.” For several moments he made no remark at all. There was something curiously impressive in that sudden sweep up from the sea-line; the strange, miniature mountain standing in the middle of the marshes, with its tree-crowned background; and the long, weather-beaten front of the house turned bravely to the sea. “I never saw anything like it,” he declared. “Why, it’s barely a quarter of a mile from the sea, isn’t it?”