“The Hermit of Far End?”
“Yes. He's a queer, silent man who lives all by himself at a house built almost on the edge of Monk's Cliff—you must have seen it as you drove up?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Sara, with sudden enlightenment. “Then his name is Trent. The cabman presented me with that information,” she added, in answer to Molly's look of surprise.
“Yes—Garth Trent. It's rather an odd name—sounds like a railway collision, doesn't it? But it suits him somehow”—reflectively.
“Have you met him?” prompted Sara. It was odd how definite an interest her brief encounter with him had aroused in her.
“Yes—once. He treated me”—giggling delightedly—“rather as if I wasn't there! At least”—reminiscently—“he tried to.”
“It doesn't sound as though he had succeeded?” suggested Sara, amused.
Molly looked at her solemnly.
“He told some one afterwards—Miles Herrick, the only man he ever speaks to, I think, without compulsion—that I was 'the Delilah type of woman, and ought to have been strangled at birth.'”
“He must be a charming person,” commented Sara ironically.