"And that?" I asked.

"You always try to find out the thing which is lying a long way off from you. You never observe the thing which is close by."

"You speak in a detached way," I replied. "You speak of Englishmen in the third person. Why do you do that? You are an Englishman?"

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Instead of answering that," I replied, "I will tell you something else.

You have spent a good deal of time in Germany."

I was startled by the change which came over his face. I had evidently made him fear.

"Why do you say that?" he cried.

"There is such a thing as intuition as well as deduction," I replied.

"Intuition and deduction act and react one upon the other. But, after all, you didn't come here because you were interested in mental gymnastics. You say I am in danger in this place; you have warned me to leave it. Why do you say this to me?"

"Ah, there is the English side of your character coming out! Will you not do as I tell you without my giving you a reason?"

"No," I replied.

"Then your own blood be upon your head. I warn you; I can do no more. I tell you you are in danger. You as a lawyer ought to know that a clever man, an observant man, even although he may know nothing of what is going on around him, can be a constant menace to those who work in secret. Now do you follow me?"

"Yes," I replied, "I follow you, but because you will not tell me plainly what is in your mind, you have aroused my curiosity; more than that, you have aroused the John Bull in me. I am too near death to be intimidated by what you tell me. As a consequence, you have made me more determined than ever to stay here, unless," I added, "you have decided to come back and live here, and drive me from this little hut, which, in spite of myself, I have come to love."

"Ah, you like it!" he said. "It is comfortable, is it not? The sea views are wonderful, the silence of the night is a revelation; but leave it, my young friend, leave it!"

"I have told you I shall not leave it," I replied, "until I have sufficient reason for doing so."

"But you can do no good by remaining here; if you could, I would not hinder you from your madness. But can't you realize, man, that England is at war? Now then, cannot you understand?"

"Oh yes," I replied. "I have had that in my mind for some time. I realized it when I told you that you had lived a long time in Germany."

"How did you guess that?"

"Oh, for one thing, while you speak English with an English accent, the construction of your sentences suggests a close acquaintance with German literature. You mentioned the Kaiser just now when you spoke of being guarded, and a look of fear came into your eyes when I said I knew of your connection with Germany."

He grasped the arms of his chair as I spoke, and looked at me without speaking, but I saw that I had touched him--saw too that there were thoughts in his mind which he dared not utter.

"You are afraid of some one," I went on. "Who, I don't know; possibly I shall not be able to find out; but you are. In spite of the kindliness of your nature, there is a horrible fear in your heart. Forces are at work in your life which I at present cannot understand. Look here, are you a paid tool of the German Government?"

"G.o.d forbid!" he cried. "No, no, G.o.d forbid; but--but----Look here, Mr.

Erskine, have you discovered anything?"

"Nothing. I wish I had."

"Let me tell you this, then. You are watched, constantly watched, and the moment you do discover anything----" He shrugged his shoulders by way of concluding his sentence. "Every man has his own secrets," he went on; "as you say, motives govern lives. They guide our actions, control our words."

"If I am watched day and night," I said, "I must be a person of some importance; but more than that, you must be in danger in coming here."

"I fight the devil with his own weapons," was his reply. "I meet cunning with cunning, plot with plot, mystery with mystery. To be forewarned is to be fore-armed, and I have taken every precaution; but I cannot tell you what I know--that is why I beseech you to leave here. You, a poor invalid, weak as a rabbit, with one foot in the grave, can do nothing; yet your very presence is a menace. Therefore leave the neighborhood, or if you must stay in the neighborhood, go into the village away from here."

"I should not be in danger if I went into the village, then?" I asked.

"Go into the village," he repeated. "There are lodgings there, simple perhaps, but clean, which would suit you just as well as this."

"No," I replied, "no place will suit me quite as well as this."

"Then your blood be upon your own head; I am sorry. I like you; I watched you directly after you came here. I discovered all that there was to be known about you. Leave the place, man, and give it out that it is haunted."

"Do you realize," I said, "that you have put yourself in danger, too? I do not mean from those enemies who are unknown to me, but from other sources. I happen to know three magistrates in this district. If I were to tell them what you have told me to-night, I could have you arrested as a dangerous character. I have a servant, too, who is in a room close by. Possibly he has heard every word which has pa.s.sed between us."

He laughed like a man amused.

"No, Mr. Erskine," he said, "there is not the slightest danger of that.

Your servant is asleep. Bah, do you think I don't know? Do you think I am such a fool as that? As for telling the magistrates, you could not do it."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you are you. Do you think I did not estimate the kind of man I am speaking to before I said what I have said? But I am sorry. I must be going now."

He put on his heavy ulster as he spoke, b.u.t.toned it closely round his throat, and pulled his broad-brimmed hat over his forehead.

"If you discover anything," he said,--"I am saying this as an off chance, ay, a chance in a million,--leave this place as soon as you have discovered it, and send a telegram to me."

"Where?" I asked.

"Send it to John Adams, Chigwheal Post Office."

"And you will tell me nothing more than that?"

"I came here to warn, not to inform."

As he spoke I heard a sound outside, something like the cry of a sea-bird; it was a human voice.

"Good-night," he said, holding out his hand. "I am truly sorry, but I have done my best."

I unlocked the door, and he pa.s.sed out into the darkness. I listened intently, and heard the rustling of the bushes. A minute later, there was a murmur of voices, and I knew that Fever Lurgy was near.

After having closed the door and carefully locked it, I sat for a long time thinking.

Part of the little success I had had in the law was owing to a remarkably retentive memory. I have sometimes thought that my memory is peculiar to myself. I do not quite know how to describe it. I have listened to a conversation which has interested me, and I have listened to evidence in court which has been of importance, and for three or four days I have remembered it in its minutest detail, and could repeat it word for word. At the end of three or four days, however, the details have pa.s.sed from me completely, although I have retained the broad outlines of what I have heard. Now as I sat, the conversation which had taken place, every word, every look, every gesture of old Father Abraham was clear before my mind.

That the old man was sincere I did not doubt. He evidently believed that I was in danger. I was sure, too, that he had had some connections with Germany, and that his fears were connected with the war. But I doubted his judgment. I was not sure that he was altogether sane. He was obsessed with thoughts which had no objective reality, at least so I fancied, and yet his warning was grave. Not that I intended to heed it: I had not much to hope for in life; but danger or no danger, I meant to get to the bottom of what he had said. Evidently this hut was closely connected with his thoughts. Evidently, too, it had been under his observation ever since he had left it.

I reflected on all I had said to him, and was pleased that I had told him nothing of what I had discovered. Remembering all that had taken place in the country during the last few months, I determined to use whatever faculties I might possess in order to discover how I might be a menace to the enemy. If I could discover that, I should be able to help my own country.

When I awoke the following morning, I realized how truly Father Abraham had read my character. I could not make up my mind, even although I had tried, to tell any one that the old man was still alive, and that his actions were at least suspicious. For one thing, I did not believe that he was an enemy to our country; for another, I had my doubts whether any good could result in making a search for him.