“Is there a way up into the village beyond the cottage here?” said Stratton quietly.
“Yes, but it is only a sort of flight of steps used by the people here. It would be farther round, too. Better keep to the beach.”
As he spoke Brettison walked by his side, and tried to edge him away from the light, speaking in quite a whisper the while, as if afraid that their voices might reach the occupant of the cottage.
And meanwhile Stratton was still debating within himself as to whether he should tell his companion of the startling adventure he had had. But feeling more and more that the idea was only coloured by his imagination, and knowing in his heart that the old man would smile and point out the impossibility of such an encounter, he determined to be silent till the morning—if he could not learn anything about any visitors who might be staying there.
Twice over as they walked he was on the point of speaking, but checked himself, and then the opportunity was gone, for Brettison held out his hand.
“Good-night, my boy,” he said; “you are tired. There, go to the inn and have a good night’s rest.”
“One moment, Brettison,” said Stratton, arresting him. “You do not think it possible that—”
He stopped short: he could not say it. The idea was absurd.
“Well, think what possible?” said Brettison, smiling.
“That he is likely to turn dangerous?”