He hardly left the little porthole through which he watched that day, but was constantly directing his glasses at the grey building.
Towards afternoon he saw the tall man come out from the study window, and begin walking up and down with his hands behind his back; then he stopped in a corner sheltered from the wind, and directly after there came a faint film of blue smoke rising, and Glyddyr looked on as the stranger walked to and fro.
“One of the old man’s best cigars, I’ll be bound,” muttered Glyddyr, laying down the glass, and biting his nails. “Who can he be?”
Ten minutes after, as Glyddyr sat there, glass in hand, he saw two figures in black come out of the front entrance, and go along the terrace a little way, to stand watching the sea.
He had it all there in miniature within the double circle of those glasses: Claude and Mary Dillon; and he could almost make out the expression upon the two pale countenances, till they moved slowly away and joined the tall gentleman who was walking up and down, and for the next hour they were in his company, ending by going in together, and the terrace was blank.
“A visitor—seems to be young—on familiar terms. There is no brother; I never heard of a cousin. Who can it be?”
Glyddyr gnawed his moustache, for here was a fresh complication. He could see no other reason for a visitor to be at Gartram’s house than as a fortune-hunter in search of Claude’s hand. This, then, was a new danger—from a man who was openly received there, and seemed quite at home. So that, while he was watching for the dangers of an assault upon the Fort by Chris Lisle, another had entered and taken possession.
“While I, like a cursed coward, have hung about, not daring to renew my suit.”
“Guv’nor aboard?”
Glyddyr had heard no splash of oars, nor the light jar of a boat touching his yacht side, but that voice made him start to his feet, and stand grinding his teeth.