“Naturally,” he admitted. “Let us stay and have lunch and try again.” She shook her head with a little sigh of regret. “You see, the car is waiting,” she pointed out. “We are expected home. I shan’t be a minute putting my clubs away.” They sped swiftly along the level road towards St. David’s Hall. Far in the distance they saw it, built upon that strange hill, with the sunlight flashing in its windows. He looked at it long and curiously. “I think,” he said, “that yours is the most extraordinarily situated house I have ever seen. Fancy a gigantic mound like that in the midst of an absolutely flat marsh.” She nodded. “There is no other house quite like it in England,” she said. “I suppose it is really a wonderful place. Have you looked at the pictures?” “Not carefully,” he told her. “You must before you leave,” she insisted. “Mr. Fentolin is a great judge, and so was his father.” Their road curved a little to the sea, and at its last bend they were close to the pebbly ridge on which the Tower was built. He touched the electric bell and stopped the car. “Do let us walk along and have a look at my queer possession once more,” he begged. “Luncheon, you told me, is not till half-past one, and it is a quarter to now.” She hesitated for a moment and then assented. They left the car and walked along the little track, bordered with white posts, which led on to the ridge. To their right was the village, separated from them only by one level stretch of meadowland; in the background, the hall. They turned along the raised dike just inside the pebbly beach, and she showed her companion the narrow waterway up to the village. At its entrance was a tall iron upright, with a ladder attached and a great lamp at the top. “That is to show them the way in at night, isn’t it?” he asked. She nodded. “Yes,” she told him. “Mr. Fentolin had it placed there. And yet,” she went on, “curiously enough, since it was erected, there have been more wrecks than ever.” “It doesn’t seem a dangerous beach,” he remarked. She pointed to a spot about fifty yards from the Tower. It was the spot to which the woman whom he had met on the day of his arrival had pointed. “You can’t see them,” she said; “they are always out of sight, even when the tide is at the lowest--but there are some hideous sunken rocks there. ‘The Daggers,’ they call them. One or two fishing boats have been lost on them, trying to make the village. When Mr. Fentolin put up the lamp, every one thought that it would be quite safe to try and get in at night. This winter, though, there have been three wrecks which no one could understand. It must be something in the currents, or a sort of optical illusion, because in the last shipwreck one man was saved, and he swore that at the time they struck the rock, they were headed straight for the light.”