The coach leaves Penzance at nine in the morning for a two hours' climb over bare moorland to St. Just—a little grey, remote town on the western sea. The loneliness of the hills is emphasized here and there by the ruin of an abandoned mine. St. Just itself, the very acme of remoteness, is yearly diminishing in importance and population, sending forth her burrowing sons to those places in the world where silver and copper and gold lie hid.
The coastguard captain was awaiting Stoke's arrival in the little deserted square where the Penzance omnibus deposits its passengers. The two men shook hands with that subtle and silent fellowship which draws together seamen of all classes and all nations. They walked away together in the calm speechlessness of Englishmen thrown together on matters of their daily business.
“He doesn't pick up at all,” said the coastguard captain, at length. “Just sits mum all day. My wife looks after him, but she can't stir him up. If anybody could, she could.” And the man walked on, looking straight in front of him with a patient eye. He spoke with unconscious feeling. “He is a gentleman, despite the clothes he came ashore in. Getting across to the Southern States under a cloud, as likely as not,” he said, presently. “Some bank manager, perhaps. He must have changed clothes with some forecastle hand. They were seaman's clothes, and he had been sleeping or hiding in a ditch.”
He led the way to his house, standing apart in the well-kept garden of the station. He opened the door of the simply furnished drawing-room.
“Here is a friend come to see you,” he said; and, standing aside, he invited Stoke by a silent gesture of the head to pass in.
A man was sitting in front of the fire with his back towards the door. He did not move or turn his head. Stoke closed the door behind him as he entered the room, and went slowly towards the fireplace. Dixon turned and looked at him with shrinking eyes, like the eyes of a dog that has been beaten.
“Let us get out on to the cliffs,” he said in a whisper. “We cannot talk here.”
He was clean-shaven, and his hair was grizzled at the temples. His face looked oddly weak; for he had an irresolute chin, hitherto hidden by his smart beard. Few would have recognized him.
By way of reply Stoke went back towards the door.
“Come on, then,” he said rather curtly.