“Perhaps, yes,” agreed Spinrobin.  His own insignificance seemed peculiarly apparent at that moment in contrast to Mr. Skale who had become part and parcel of the rugged landscape.  Spinrobin was a lost atom whirling somewhere outside on his own account, whereas the other seemed oddly in touch with it, almost merged and incorporated into it.  With those deep breaths the clergyman absorbed something of this latent power about them—­then gave it out again.  It broke over his companion like a wave.  Elemental force of some kind emanated from that massive human figure beside him.

The wind came tearing up the valley and swept past them with a rush as of mighty wings.  Mr. Skale drew attention to it.  “And listen to that!” he said.  “How it leaps, singing, from the woods in the valley up to those gaunt old cliffs yonder!” He pointed.  His beard blew suddenly across his face.  With his bare head and shaggy flying hair, his big eyes and bold aquiline nose, he presented an impressive figure.  Spinrobin watched him with growing amazement, aware that an enthusiasm scarcely warranted by the wind and scenery had passed into his manner.  In his own person, too, he thought he experienced a birth of something similar—­a little wild rush of delight he was unable to account for.  The voice of his companion, pointing out the house in the valley below, again interrupted his thoughts.

“How the mountains positively eat it up.  It lies in their very jaws,” and the secretary’s eyes, traveling into the depths, made out a cluster of grey stone chimneys and a clearing in the woods that evidently represented lawns.  The phrase “courage and imagination” flashed unbidden into his mind as he realized the loneliness of the situation, and for the hundredth time he wondered what in the world could be the experiments with sound that this extraordinary man pursued in this isolated old mansion among the hills.

“Buried, sir, rather,” he suggested.  “I can only just see it—­”

“And inaccessible,” Mr. Skale interrupted him.  “Hard to get at.  No one comes to disturb; an ideal place for work.  In the hollows of these hills a man may indeed seek truth and pursue it, for the world does not enter here.”  He paused a moment.  “I hope, Mr. Spinrobin,” he added, turning towards him with that gentle smile his shaggy visage sometimes wore, “I hope you will not find it too lonely.  We have no visitors, I mean; nothing but our own little household of four.”

Spinrobin smiled back.  Even at this stage he admits he was exceedingly anxious to suit.  Mr. Skale, in spite of his marked peculiarities, inspired him with confidence.  His personal attraction was growing every minute; that vague awe he roused probably only increased it.  He wondered who the “four” might be.

“There’s nothing like solitude for serious work, sir,” replied the younger man, stifling a passing uneasiness.