Sara found it difficult to associate the words failure and defeat with her knowledge of his dominating personality and force of will, and the natural curiosity which had been aroused in her mind by his strange mode of life, with its deliberate isolation, and by the aroma of mystery which seemed to cling about him, deepened.

Her brows drew together in a puzzled frown, as she inwardly sought for some explanation of the many inconsistencies she had encountered even in the short time that she had known him.

His abrupt alterations from reticence to unreserved; his avowed dislike of women and the contradictory enjoyment which he seemed to find in her society; his love of music and of beautiful surroundings—­alike indicative of a cultivated appreciation and experience of the good things of this world—­and the solitary, hermit-like existence which he yet chose to lead—­all these incongruities of temperament and habit wove themselves into an enigma which she found impossible to solve.

“Here we are!”

Garth’s voice recalled her abruptly from her musings to find that the Betsy Anne was swaying gently alongside a little wooden landing-stage.

“But how civilized!” she exclaimed.  “One does not expect to find a jetty on a desert-island.”

Trent laughed grimly.

“Devil’s Hood is far from being a desert island in the summer, when the tourists come this way.  They swarm over it.”

Whilst he was speaking, he had made fast the painter, and he now stepped out on to the landing-stage.  Sara prepared to follow him.  For a moment she stood poised with one foot on the gunwale of the boat, then, as an incoming wave drove the little skiff suddenly against the wooden supports of the jetty, she staggered, lost her balance, and toppled helplessly backward.

But even as she fell, Garth’s arms closed round her like steel bars, and she felt herself lifted clean up from the rocking boat on to the landing-stage.  For an instant she knew that she rested a dead weight against his breast; then he placed her very gently on her feet.

“All right?” he queried, steadying her with his hand beneath her arm.  “That was a near shave.”

His queer hazel eyes were curiously bright, and Sara, meeting their gaze, felt her face flame scarlet.

“Quite, thanks,” she said a little breathlessly, adding:  “You must be very strong.”

She moved her arm as though trying to free it from his clasp, and he released it instantly.  But his face was rather white as he knelt down to lift out the tea-basket, and he, too, was breathing quickly.

Somewhat silently they made their way up the sandy slope that stretched ahead of them, and presently, as they mounted the last rise, the malignant, distorted face beneath the Devil’s Hood leaped into view, granite-grey and menacing against the young blue of the April sky.

“What a perfectly horrible head!” exclaimed Sara, gazing at it aghast.  “It’s like a nightmare of some kind.”