"I have been to Torquay, but I did not go to Dartmoor," she said.
"You ought to have done so; it is a wonderful place. I was there a long time. When were you in Torquay?"
She told him.
"Strange," he said; "I was there at that time."
She felt a curious dread, not of him, but of something unknown.
"I went to the races—a friend of mine was riding there. He won four events. Lucky, was it not?"
"Yes," she said faintly. "Who was he?"
"Picton Woodridge. His yacht the Sea-mew was in the bay. I was on it."
"You!" she exclaimed, and he saw the fear in her eyes.
"Yes, why not? Is there anything strange about it?" he asked, smiling. "He lives at Haverton. He is rich, but he is not quite happy."