“The master did not name the hour of his return.”

I did not press the interrogation.  I felt that there was something here that the old man was keeping back; but I had an impression of equal force that he ought to be allowed the run of his discretion with it.  Besides, the brilliant morning had swept out my sinister impressions.

I got my cap and stick from the rack by the door and went out.  The house was within a hundred paces of the loch, in a place of wild beauty on a bit of moor, yellow with gorse, extending from the great barren mountains behind it right down into the water.  Immense banners of mist lay along the tops of these mountain peaks, and streams of water like skeins of silk marked the deep gorges in dazzling whiteness.

The loch was a crooked finger of the sea hooked into the land.  It was clear as glass in the bright morning.  The open sea was directly beyond the crook of the finger, barred out by a nest of needlepointed rocks.  On this morning, with the sea motionless, they stood up like the teeth of a harrow, but in heavy weather I imagined that the waves covered them.  To the eye they were not the height of a man above the level water; they glistened in the brilliant sun like a sheaf of black pikes.

This was Saint Conan’s Landing, and it occurred to me that if the holy man came in rough weather from the Irish coast he required, in truth, all the perspicacity of a saint to get his boat in without having it impaled on these devil’s needles.

There was no garden to speak of about the house.  It was grown up like the moor.  Two or three images of Buddhas stood about in it; one of them was quite large — three feet in height I should say at a guess.  They were on rough stone pedestals.  I examined them carefully.  They were all defective; the large one had an immense flaw in the shoulder.  The gorse nearly covered them; the unkept hedge let the moor in and there were no longer any paths, except one running to the boathouse.

I did not follow the path.  But I looked down at the boathouse with some interest.  This was the building that my uncle had turned into a sort of foundry for his weird experiments.  There was a big lock on the door and a coal-blacked chimney standing above the roof.

It was afternoon.  The whole coast about me was like an undiscovered country.  I hardly knew in what direction to set out on my exploration.  I stood in the path digging my stick into the gravel and undecided.  Finally I determined to cross the bit of moor to the high ground overlooking the loch.  It was the sloping base of one of the great peaks and purple with heather.  It looked the best point for a full sweep of the sea and the coast.

I jumped the hedge and set out across the moor to the high ground.

There was no path through the gorse, but when I reached the heather where the foot of the mountain peak descended into the loch there was a sort of newly broken trail.  The heather was high and dense and I followed the trail onto the high ground overlooking the sweep of the coast.