The big man appeared friendly, though Brendon heartily wished him away.

“Sea fishing’s my sport,” he said.  “Conger and cod, pollack and mackerel—­half a boat load—­that’s sport.  That means tight lines and a thirst afterward.”

“I expect it does.”

“But this bally place seems to bewitch people,” continued the big man.  “What is it about Dartmoor?  Only a desert of hills and stones and two-penny half-penny streams a child can walk across; and yet—­why you’ll hear folk blether about it as though heaven would only be a bad substitute.”

The other laughed.  “There is a magic here.  It gets into your blood.”

“So it does.  Even a God-forgotten hole like Princetown with nothing to see but the poor devils of convicts.  A man I know is building himself a bungalow out here.  He and his wife will be just as happy as a pair of wood pigeons—­at least they think so.”

“I heard a trowel clinking.”

“Yes, I lend a hand sometimes when the workmen are gone.  But think of it—­to turn your back on civilization and make yourself a home in a desert!”

“Might do worse—­if you’ve got no ambitions.”

“Yes—­ambition is not their strong point.  They think love’s enough—­poor souls.  Why don’t you fish?”

“Waiting for it to get a bit darker.”

“Well, so long.  Take care you don’t catch anything that’ll pull you in.”

Laughing at his joke and making another echo ring sharply over the still face of the water, the red man strode off through the gap fifty yards distant.  Then in the stillness Mark heard the purr of a machine.  He had evidently departed upon a motor bicycle to the main road half a mile distant.

When he was gone Brendon rose and strolled down to the other entrance of the quarry that he might see the bungalow of which the stranger had spoken.  Leaving the great pit he turned right-handed and there, in a little hollow facing southwest, he found the building.  It was as yet far from complete.  The granite walls now stood six feet high and they were of remarkable thickness.  The plan indicated a dwelling of six rooms and Brendon perceived that the house would have no second story.  An acre round about had been walled, but as yet the boundaries were incomplete.  Magnificent views swept to the west and south.  Brendon’s rare sight could still distinguish Saltash Bridge spanning the waters above Plymouth, where Cornwall heaved up against the dying afterglow of the west.  It was a wonderful place in which to dwell, and the detective speculated as to the sort of people who would be likely to lift their home in this silent wilderness.