He smiled.

“Of course I have,” he assured her.  “As a matter of fact, as none of us have been here for so long, I thought I’d better bring the title-deed, or whatever they call it, along with me.  It’s with the rest of my traps at Norwich.  Oh, the place belongs to me, right enough!” he went on, smiling.  “Don’t tell me that any one’s pulled it down, or that it’s disappeared from the face of the earth?”

“No,” she said, “it still remains there.  When we are round the next curve, I think I can show it to you.  But every one has forgotten, I think, that it doesn’t belong to Mr. Fentolin still.  He uses it himself very often.”

“What for?”

She looked at her questioner quite steadfastly, quite quietly, speechlessly.  A curious uneasiness crept into his thoughts.  There were mysterious things in her face.  He knew from that moment that she, too, directly or indirectly, was concerned with those strange happenings at which Kinsley had hinted.  He knew that there were things which she was keeping from him now.

“Mr. Fentolin uses one of the rooms as a studio.  He likes to paint there and be near the sea,” she explained.  “But for the rest, I do not know.  I never go near the place.”

“I am afraid,” he remarked, after a few moments of silence, “that I shall be a little unpopular with Mr. Fentolin.  Perhaps I ought to have written first, but then, of course, I had no idea that any one was making use of the place.”

“I do not understand,” she said, “how you can possibly expect to come down like this and live there, without any preparation.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t any servants nor any furniture nor things to cook with.”

He laughed.

“Oh!  I am an old campaigner,” he assured her.  “I meant to pick up a few oddments in the village.  I don’t suppose I shall stay very long, anyhow, but I thought I’d like to have a look at the place.  By-the-by, what sort of a man is Mr. Fentolin?”

Again there was that curious expression in her eyes, an expression almost of secret terror, this time not wholly concealed.  He could have sworn that her hands were cold.

“He met with an accident many years ago,” she said slowly.  “Both his legs were amputated.  He spends his life in a little carriage which he wheels about himself.”

“Poor fellow!” Hamel exclaimed, with a strong man’s ready sympathy for suffering.  “That is just as much as I have heard about him.  Is he a decent sort of fellow in other ways?  I suppose, anyhow, if he has really taken a fancy to my little shanty, I shall have to give it up.”

Then, as it seemed to him, for the first time real life leaped into her face.  She leaned towards him.  Her tone was half commanding, half imploring, her manner entirely confidential.

“Don’t!” she begged.  “It is yours.  Claim it.  Live in it.  Do anything you like with it, but take it away from Mr. Fentolin!”