“Do let us walk along and have a look at my queer possession once more,” he begged. “Luncheon, you told me, is not till half-past one, and it is a quarter to now.”
She hesitated for a moment and then assented. They left the car and walked along the little track, bordered with white posts, which led on to the ridge. To their right was the village, separated from them only by one level stretch of meadowland; in the background, the hall. They turned along the raised dike just inside the pebbly beach, and she showed her companion the narrow waterway up to the village. At its entrance was a tall iron upright, with a ladder attached and a great lamp at the top.
“That is to show them the way in at night, isn’t it?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she told him. “Mr. Fentolin had it placed there. And yet,” she went on, “curiously enough, since it was erected, there have been more wrecks than ever.”
“It doesn’t seem a dangerous beach,” he remarked.
She pointed to a spot about fifty yards from the Tower. It was the spot to which the woman whom he had met on the day of his arrival had pointed.
“You can’t see them,” she said; “they are always out of sight, even when the tide is at the lowest—but there are some hideous sunken rocks there. ‘The Daggers,’ they call them. One or two fishing boats have been lost on them, trying to make the village. When Mr. Fentolin put up the lamp, every one thought that it would be quite safe to try and get in at night. This winter, though, there have been three wrecks which no one could understand. It must be something in the currents, or a sort of optical illusion, because in the last shipwreck one man was saved, and he swore that at the time they struck the rock, they were headed straight for the light.”
They had reached the Tower now. Hamel became a little absorbed. They walked around it, and he tried the front door. He found, as he had expected, that it opened readily. He looked around him for several moments.
“Your uncle has been here this morning,” he remarked quietly.