On Sunday afternoon, left temporarily to my own devices, I wandered along the cliff, crossing into the adjoining property.  The wind had fallen; the waves, much subdued, broke rhythmically against the rocks; during the night a new mantle of snow had been spread, and the clouds were still low and menacing.  As I strolled I became aware of a motionless figure ahead of me,—­one that seemed oddly familiar; the set of the shabby overcoat on the stooping shoulders, the unconscious pose contributed to a certain sharpness of individuality; in the act of challenging my memory, I halted.  The man was gazing at the seascape, and his very absorption gave me a sudden and unfamiliar thrill.  The word absorption precisely expresses my meaning, for he seemed indeed to have become a part of his surroundings,—­an harmonious part.  Presently he swung about and looked at me as though he had expected to find me there—­and greeted me by name.

“Krebs!” I exclaimed.

He smiled, and flung out his arm, indicating the scene.  His eyes at that moment seemed to reflect the sea,—­they made the gaunt face suddenly beautiful.

“This reminds me of a Japanese print,” he said.

The words, or the tone in which he spoke, curiously transformed the picture.  It was as if I now beheld it, anew, through his vision:  the grey water stretching eastward to melt into the grey sky, the massed, black trees on the hillside, powdered with white, the snow in rounded, fantastic patches on the huge boulders at the foot of the cliff.  Krebs did not seem like a stranger, but like one whom I had known always,—­one who stood in a peculiar relationship between me and something greater I could not define.  The impression was fleeting, but real....  I remember wondering how he could have known anything about Japanese prints.

“I didn’t think you were still in this part of the country,” I remarked awkwardly.

“I’m a reporter on a Boston newspaper, and I’ve been sent up here to interview old Mr. Dome, who lives in that house,” and he pointed to a roof above the trees.  “There is a rumour, which I hope to verify, that he has just given a hundred thousand dollars to the University.”

“And—­won’t he see you?”

“At present he’s taking a nap,” said Krebs.  “He comes here occasionally for a rest.”

“Do you like interviewing?” I asked.

He smiled again.

“Well, I see a good many different kinds of people, and that’s interesting.”

“But—­being a reporter?” I persisted.

This continued patronage was not a conscious expression of superiority on my part, but he did not seem to resent it.  He had aroused my curiosity.

“I’m going into the law,” he said.