It so happened that the young man of the caravan had two considerable faults. The first fault my reader has, no doubt, already guessed—he was constitutionally lazy. The second fault will appear more clearly in the sequel: he was, also, constitutionally inquisitive. Now, his laziness was of that not uncommon kind which is capable of a great deal of activity, so long as that activity is unconscious, and not realized as being in the nature of work; and its possessor, therefore, would frequently, in his idle way, bestir himself a good deal; whereas, if he had been ordered to bestir himself, he would have yawned and resisted. Here his other constitutional defect came in, and set him prying into matters which in no way seriously concerned him. A little time before the period of his present excursion, when he was studying law in Dublin, and rapidly discovered that he loved artistic amateurship much better, he had often been known to work terribly hard at “cases” in which his curiosity was aroused; and I may add in passing that he had shown on these occasions an amount of shrewdness which would have made him an excellent lawyer, if his invincible objection to hard work, qua work, had not invariably interfered.

No sooner was he left to his own meditations, which the faithful Tim (who had fortunately been away on a foraging expedition during the episode described in my last chapter) was not at hand to disturb, than our young gentleman began puzzling his brains over the curious information she had given him. The facts, which he had no reason to question, ranged themselves under four heads:—

1. Matt had been cast ashore, fifteen years previously, at an age when she could pronounce the word “Papa.” It followed as a rational argument that she had been, say, one year old, or thereabouts.

2. Mr. Monk had found her, and given her into the care of William Jones, and had since given that worthy sums of money for taking care of her. Query, What reason had the said Monk for exhibiting so much care for the child, unless he were a person of wonderfully benevolent disposition, which my hero was not at all inclined to believe?

3. Said Monk and said Jones were on very familiar terms, which was curious, seeing the difference in their social positions. Query again, Was there any private reason, any mysterious knowledge, any secret shared in common, which bound their interests together?

4. Last and most extraordinary of all, said Monk had now expressed his wish and intention of marrying the waif he had rescued from the sea, committed to the care of said Jones, and brought up in ragged ignorance, innocent of grace or grammar, on that lonely shore. Query again, and again, and yet again, What the deuce had put the idea into Monk’s head; and was there at the bottom of it any deeper and more conceivable motive than the one of ordinary affection for a pretty, if uncultivated, child?

The more Charles Brinkley pondered all these questions, the more hopelessly puzzled he became. But his curiosity, once roused, could not rest. He determined, if possible, to get to the midriff of the mystery. So intent was he on this object, which fitted in beautifully with his natural indolence, that he at once knocked off painting for the day, and after breakfasting on the fare with which Tim had by this time appeared, he strolled away towards the sea shore.

He had not gone far when he saw approaching him a tall figure which he seemed to recognize. It came closer, and he saw that it was Mr. Monk of Monkshurst.

This time Monk was on foot. He wore a dark dress, with knickerbockers and heavy shooting boots, and carried a gun. A large dog, of the species lurcher, followed at his heels.

Brinkley was passing by without any salutation when, to his surprise, the other paused and lifted his hat.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “We have met once before; and I think I have to-apologize to you for unintentional incivility. The fact is—h’m—I mistook you for a—vagrant! I did not know you were a gentleman.”

So staggered was the artist with this greeting, that he could only borrow the vocabulary of Mr. Toots—

“Oh, it’s of no consequence,” he said, attempting to pass on.

But the other persevered.

“I assure you Mr.———, Mr.——— (I have not the pleasure of knowing your name), that I had no desire of offending you; and if I did so, I beg to apologize.”

Brinkley looked keenly at the speaker. His words and manner were greatly at variance with his looks,—even with the tone of his voice. Though he smiled and showed his teeth, a dark frown still disfigured his brow, and his mouth twitched nervously as if he were ill at ease.

Regarding him thus closely, Brinkley saw that he had been somewhat mistaken as to his age. He was considerably under forty years of age, but his hair was mixed with grey, and his features strongly marked as with the scars of old passions. A handsome man, certainly; an amiable one, certainly not! Yet he had a peculiar air of power and breeding, as of one accustomed to command.

Curiosity overcame dislike, and the young man determined to receive Mr. Monk’s overture as amiably as possible.

“I dare say it was a mistake,” he said. “Gentlemen don’t usually travel about in caravans.”

“You are an artist, I am informed,” returned Monk.

“Something of that sort,” was the reply. “I paint a little for pleasure.”

“And do you find this neighbourhood suit your purpose?—It is somewhat flat and unpicturesque.”

“I rather like it,” answered Brinkley. “It is pretty in summer; it must be splendid in winter, when the storms begin, and the uneventful career of our friend William Jones is varied by the excitement of wrecks.” How Monk’s forehead darkened! But his face smiled still as he said—

“It is not often that shipwrecks occur now, I am glad to say.”

“No,” said Brinkley, drily. “They used to be common enough fifteen years ago.” Their eyes met, and the eyes of Monk were full of fierce suspicion.

“Why fifteen years ago, especially?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

“I was told only to-day of the loss of one great ship, at that time. Matt told me, the little foundling. You know Matt, of course?”

“I know whom you mean. Excuse me, but you seem to be very familiar with her name?”

“I suppose I am,” replied the young man. “Matt and I are excellent friends.”

Monk did not smile now; all his efforts to do so were ineffectual. With an expression of savage dislike, he looked in Brinkley’s face, and his voice, though his words were still civil, trembled and grew harsh “as scrannel pipes of straw.”

“May I ask if you purpose remaining long in the neighbourhood?”

“I don’t know,” answered the artist. “My time is my own, and I shall stay as long as the place amuses me.”

“If I can assist in making it do so, I shall be happy, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you care for rabbit shooting? If so, there is some sport to be had among the sand-hills.”

“I never shoot anything,” was the reply, “except, I suppose, ‘folly as it flies;’ though with what species of firearm that interesting sport is pursued,” he added, as if to himself, “I haven’t the slightest idea!”

“Well, good day,” said Monk, with an uneasy scowl. “If I can be of any service to you, command me!”

And, raising his hat again, he stalked away.

“Now, what in the name of all that is wonderful, does Mr. Monk of Monkshurst mean by becoming so civil?”

This was the question the young man asked himself, as he strolled away seaward. He could not persuade himself that he had wronged Monk, that that gentleman was in reality an amiable person, instead of a domineering bully; no, that suggestion was contradicted by every expression of the man’s baleful and suspicious face. What, then, could be the explanation of his sudden access of courtesy?

An idea! an inspiration! As it flashed into his mind, the young man gave vent to a prolonged whistle. Possibly, Monk was—jealous!

The idea was a preposterous one, and almost amusing. It was not to be conceived, on the first blush of it, that jealousy would make a surly man civil, a savage man gentle; it would rather have the contrary effect, unless—here Brinkley grew thoughtful—unless his gloomy rival had some sinister design which he wished to cloak with politeness?

But jealous of little Matt! Brinkley laughed heartily, when he fully realized the absurdity of the notion.

He crossed the sand-hills, and came again to the path which he and Matt had followed the previous day. A smart breeze was coming in from the sou’-west, and the air was fresh and cool though sunny; but clouds were gathering to windward, and the weather was evidently broken. Reaching the cliffs, he descended them, and came down on the rocks beneath. A long jagged point ran out from the spot where he stood, and the water to leeward of the same was quite calm, though rising and falling in strong troubled swells. So bright and tempting did it look in that sheltered place, that he determined to have a swim.

He stripped leisurely, and, placing his clothes in a safe place, took a header off the rocks. It was clear at once that he was a powerful swimmer. Breasting the smooth swell, he struck out from shore, and when he had gone about a hundred yards, floated lazily on his back and surveyed the shore.

The cliffs were not very high, but their forms were finely picturesque. Here and there were still green creeks, fringed with purple weed; and large shadowy caves, hewn roughly in the side of the crags; and rocky islets, covered with slimy weed and awash with the lapping water. A little to the right of the spot from which he had dived, the cliff seemed hollowed out, forming a wide passage which the sea entered with a tramp and a rush and a roar.

Towards this passage Brinkley swam. He knew the danger of such places, for he had often explored them both in Cornwall and the West of Ireland; but he had confidence in his own natatory skill. Approaching the shore leisurely with strong, slow strokes, he paused outside the passage, and observed that the sea swell, entering the opening, rushed and quickened itself like a rapid shooting to the fall, turning at the base of the cliff into a cloud of thin prismatic spray. Suddenly, through the top of the spray, a cloud of rock pigeons emerged, winging their flight rapidly along the crags.

Brinkley knew by the last phenomenon that the spray concealed the entrance of some large subterranean cavern. If any doubt had remained on his mind, it would have been dispelled by the appearance of a solitary pigeon, which leaving its companions, wavered lightly back, flew back through the spray with a rapid downward flight, and disappeared.

He was floating a little nearer, with an enjoyment deepened by the sense of danger, when a figure suddenly appeared on the rocks close by him, wildly waving its hands.

“Keep back! Keep back!” cried a voice.

He looked at the figure, and recognized William Jones. He answered him, but the sound of his voice was drowned by the roar from the rocks. Then William Jones shouted again more indistinctly, and repeated his excited gestures. It was clear that he was warning the swimmer against some hidden danger. Brinkley took the warning, and struck out from the shore, and then back to the place where he had left his clothes.

Watching his opportunity, he found a suitable spot and clambered in upon the rocks. He had just dried himself and thrown on some of his clothes, when he saw William Jones standing near and watching him.

“How are you?” asked the young man, with a nod. “Pray, what did you mean by going on in that absurd way just now?”

“What did I mean?” repeated William, with a little of his former excitement. “Look ye, now, I was waving you back from the Devil’s Cauldron. There’s many a man been drowned there, and been washed away Lord knows where. I’ve heerd tell,” he added solemnly, “they’re carried right down into the Devil’s own kitchen.”

“I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Jones, but I’m used to such places, and I think I know how to take care of myself.”

William Jones shook his head a little angrily.

“Don’t you come here no more, that’s all!” he said, and muttering ominously to himself, retired. But he only ascended the neighbouring crag, and squatting himself there like a bird of ill-omen, kept his eyes on the stranger.

Having dressed himself, Brinkley climbed in the same direction. He found William seated on the edge of the crag, looking the reverse of amiable, and amusing himself by throwing stones in the direction of the sea.

“You seem to know this place well?” said the young man, standing over him.

William Jones replied, without looking up.

“I ought to; I were born here. Father were born here. Know it? I wish I know’d as well how to make my own fortin’.”

“And yet they tell me,” observed the other, watching him slily, “that William Jones of Abertaw has money in the bank, and is a rich man!”

He saw William’s colour change at once, but recovering himself at once, the worthy gave a contemptuous grunt, and aimed a stone spitefully at a large gull which just then floated slowly by.

“Who told you that?” he asked, glancing quickly up, and then looking down again. “Some tomfool, wi’ no more sense in un than that gull. Rich? I wish I was, I do!” Brinkley was amused, and a little curious. Laughing gaily, he threw himself down by William’s side. William shifted his seat uneasily, and threw another stone.

“My dear Mr. Jones,” said the young man, assuming the flippant style which Matt found so irritating, “I have often wondered how you get your living.”

William started nervously.

“You are, I believe, a fisherman by profession; yet you never go fishing. You possess a boat, but you are seldom seen to use it. You are not, I think, of a poetical disposition; yet you spend your days in watching the water, like a poet, or a person in love. I conclude, very reluctantly, that your old habits stick to you, and that you speculate on the disasters of your fellow creatures.”

“What d’ye mean, master?” grunted William, puzzled and a little alarmed by this style of address.

“A nice wreck, now, would admirably suit your tastes? A well-laden Indiaman, smashing up on the reef-yonder, would lend sunshine to your existence, and deepen your faith in a paternal Providence? Eh, Mr. Jones?”

“I don’t know nowt about no wrecks,” was the reply. “They’re no consarn o’ mine.”

“Ah, but I have heard you lament the good old times, when wrecking was a respectable occupation, and when there were no impertinent coastguards to interfere with respectable followers of the business. By the way, I have often wondered, Mr. Jones, if popular report is true, and if, among these cliffs or the surrounding sand-hills, there is buried treasure, cast up from time to time by the sea, and concealed by energetic persons like yourself?”

William Jones could stand this no longer. Looking as pale as it was possible for so rubicund a person to become, and glancing round him suspiciously, he rose to his feet, “I know nowt o’ that,” he said. “If there is summat, I wish I could find it; but sech things never come the way of honest chaps like me. Good mornin’, master! Take a poor man’s advice, and don’t you go swimming no more near the Devil’s Cauldron!”

So saying, he walked off in the direction of the deserted village. Presently Brinkley rose and followed him, keeping him steadily in view. From time to time William Jones looked round, as if to see whether the other was coming; lingering when Brinkley lingered, hastening his pace when Brinkley hastened his. As an experiment, Brinkley turned and began walking back towards the cliffs. Glancing round over his shoulder, he saw William Jones had also turned, and was walking back.

“Curious!” he reflected. “The innocent one is keeping me in view. I have a good mind to breathe him!”

He struck off from the path, and hastened, running rather than walking, towards the sand-hills. So soon as he was certain that he was followed, he began to run in good earnest. To his delight, William began running too. He plunged among the sandhills, and was soon engaged busily running up and down them, hither and thither. From time to time he caught a glimpse of his pursuer. It was an exciting chase. When he had been engaged in it for half an hour, and was almost breathless himself, he suddenly paused in one of the deep hollows, threw himself down on his back, and lit a cigar. A few minutes afterwards, he heard a sound as of violent puffing and breathing, and the next instant William Jones, panting, gasping, perspiring at every pore, appeared above him.

“How d’ye do, Mr. Jones?” he cried gaily. “Come and have a cigar!”

Instead of replying, William Jones looked completely thunderstruck, and after glaring feebly down and muttering incoherently, disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

Brinkley finished his cigar leisurely, and then strolled back to the caravan.