lived too much with hard facts to hoodwink himself on that or any other subject.  He was a well-modelled man of great physical strength, and still agile and lithe for his age; but his hair was an ugly straw colour and his clean-shorn, pale face lacked any sort of distinction save an indication of moral purpose, character, and pugnacity.  It was a face well suited to his own requirements, for he could disguise it easily; but it was not a face calculated to charm or challenge any woman—­a fact he knew well enough.

Tramping forward now, the detective came to a great crater that gaped on the hillside and stood above the dead quarry workings of Foggintor.  Underneath him opened a cavity with sides two hundred feet high.  Its peaks and precipices fell, here by rough, giant steps, here stark and sheer over broad faces of granite, where only weeds and saplings of mountain ash and thorn could find a foothold.  The bottom was one vast litter of stone and fern, where foxgloves nodded above the masses of debris and wild things made their homes.  Water fell over many a granite shelf and in the desolation lay great and small pools.

Brendon began to descend, where a sheep track wound into the pit.  A Dartmoor pony and her foal galloped away through an entrance westerly.  At one point a wide moraine spread fanwise from above into the cup, and here upon this slope of disintegrated granite more water dripped and tinkled from overhanging ledges of stone.  Rills ran in every direction and, from the spot now reached by the sportsman, the deserted quarry presented a bewildering confusion of huge boulders, deep pits, and mighty cliff faces heaving up to scarps and counter-scarps.  Brendon had found the guardian spirit of the place on a former visit and now he lifted his voice and cried out.

“Here I am!” he said.

“Here I am!” cleanly answered Echo hid in the granite.

“Mark Brendon!”

“Mark Brendon!”

“Welcome!”

“Welcome!”

Every syllable echoed back crisp and clear, just tinged with that something not human that gave fascination to the reverberated words.

A great purple stain seemed to fill the crater and night’s wine rose up within it, while still along the eastern crest of the pit there ran red sunset light to lip the cup with gold.  Mark, picking his way through the huddled confusion, proceeded to the extreme breadth of the quarry, fifty yards northerly, and stood above two wide, still pools in the midst.  They covered the lowest depth of the old workings, shelved to a rough beach on one side and, upon the other, ran thirty feet deep, where the granite sprang sheer in a precipice from the face of the little lake.  Here crystal-clear water sank into a dim, blue darkness.  The whole surface of the pools was, however, within reach of any fly fisherman who had a rod of necessary stiffness and the skill to throw a long line.  Trout moved and here and there circles of light widened out on the water and rippled to the cliff beyond.  Then came a heavier rise and from beneath a great rock, that heaved up from the midst of the smaller pool, a good fish took a little white moth which had fluttered within reach.