“Good ebenen’, Garge.”  A lusty voice hailed out of the darkness, and then Barrant was aware of somebody entering the wagonette, a large male body which plumped heavily on his knees as it started again.

“Bed pardin, I’m sure.  Aw dedn’t knaw Crows had another passenger to-night.”  A husky voice spoke unseen. “’Taint often it ’appens.”  There was the splutter of a match, and as it flared up Barrant saw a pair of twinkling grey eyes regarding him from a brown and rugged face.  “Old Garge never reckons on haavin’ passengers back by th’ laast wagonette, so ’e never lights up inside.  I’ll make a light now, then we’ll be more comfortable.”  He struck another match and lit the candle in the wagonette lamp, and was revealed to Barrant’s eyes as a stout and pleasant-faced man of fifty or so, with something seamanlike, or at least boatmanlike, in his appearance.  He gave the detective a smile and a nod, and added, “Old Crows is fullish mean about candles.”

“It’s a wonder he drives the wagonette at all, if there is no demand for it,” remarked Barrant.

“Aw, there’s a’plenty demand for it—­always lots of passergers except by this one,” rejoined the man in the blue suit.  “You’d be surprised how people gets about in these paarts.”  He was studying the detective’s face with interest.  “You be a Londoner,” he said quickly.  “What braught you down here?”

“How do you know that I’m a Londoner?” said Barrant, parrying the latter part of the question.

“I can tell a Londoner at once,” returned the other.

“’Twould be straange if I couldn’t.  I’m Peter Portgartha.  P’raps you haven’t heard of me, but I’m well known hereabouts, and if you want to see any of the sights, you’d best coome to me, and I’ll show you round.”

“A guide, eh?”

“There be guides and guides.  I’ll say nathin’ about th’ others, but there’s nobody knaws this part of Cornwall like me.  I was born and bred and knaw every inch of it.  Before the waar I’ve had London ladies say to me:  ’’Ave you ever seen the Bay of Naples, or the Canaries?  Oh, you should see them, Mr. Portgartha, they’re ever so much more grand than Cornwall.’  Well, while the war was on I did see the Canaries and Bay of Naples at Government’s expense on a minesweeper, and they’re not a patch on the Cornwall coast.  There’s nathin’ to beat it in the world.”

“It’s good, is it?” said Barrant, with his accustomed affability to strangers.  “If I want to see any of it I’ll get you to show me round.”

“Just came along to th’ Mousehole and ask for Peter Portgartha.  There’s a great cave at the Mouse’s Hole—­that’s what we call it hereabouts, that ain’t to be beaten in the whole world.  If your good lady’s here, bring her with you to see it.  There ain’t nobody else can show it to her like I can.  The London ladies don’t like goin’ down the Mousehole cave as a rule, because it’s a stiffish bit of a climb, and in the holiday season there’s