Five hundred yards away she was met by a tall man wearing a long black coat.  Was it the priest he had noticed that morning at the door of the Catholic church in the village?  Yes, there was no doubt about that; it was the priest.  He had just lifted his hat to the lady and was now turning to walk back with her by the way he had come.  They evidently knew each other well; and the man watching them almost laughed at himself when he realized that he was slightly piqued at the clergyman’s daring to know her while he did not.  He watched the pair until they disappeared around the bend of the bluff path.  Then he settled back to look for his cigar.  But he did not find it, for other matters quickly absorbed his attention.

From out a clump of bushes on his left, where they evidently had been hiding, two men appeared.  He recognized them both.  One was a book agent who was stopping at the hotel in the village; the other was the local constable.  The book agent had a paper in his hand.

“That her?” he asked.

“Yaas, sir!”—­the constable was surely a native New Englander—­“I seed her face plain.”

“I didn’t,” said the agent, with annoyance.  “I have never seen her without that confounded veil.  This is the first time she’s had it thrown back.  But the description is right?  Look at it.”

He showed the paper to the constable, tapping it as he read.

“’Brown hair, blue eyes’—­did you see her eyes?”

“I sure did,” answered the constable; “and they wuz blue.”

“All right, then.  ’Blue eyes, regular features’—­how about that?”

“Reg’lar enough,” said the constable.  “She’d no pug nose, I kin tell ya that.”

“‘Regular features,’ then, is right.  ’Five feet four inches tall’—­that’s right.  ’Small hands and feet’—­that’s right.  ’About twenty-three years old; good figure.’”

“She sure hez all them,” vouchsafed the wearer of the star.  “I knowed her right away, and I’ve seed her often.  She’s been in Sihasset well nigh on a month.”

“But where—­” the agent turned to look at the unbroken wall—­“where in thunder did she come from?”

The constable, pushing back his helmet, scratched his head.

“Damfino,” he said.  “That’s the rub.  There’s no gate on this side of Killimaga.”

“Killimaga?”

“A rich old Irishman built it and put a wall around it, too.  We folks of Sihasset don’t like that; it shuts off the view of the house and lawn.  Lawn’s what makes things purty.  He wuz a queer old mug—­wanted to shut hisself up.”

“But how did she get out?” insisted the agent, coming back to the issue.

“Search me,” offered the constable.  He looked toward the top of the wall.  “Clumb the fence, mebbe.”

“With her dress looking as it does?”

“There’s no other way.  I dunno.”

The agent was puzzled.  “I want a closer inspection of that wall.  We’ll walk along this side.”