The sale by auction was at eleven. At two o'clock came a wire from Primmer addressed in a precautionary measure to a private address at Plymouth—that of one of the Commander-in-Chief's staff. The telegram was to the effect that Primmer had secured the house and had paid the necessary deposit to Messrs. Jeremiah Built & Co., Auctioneers and Surveyors, of Penzance.
Directly Primmer reported that his furniture had arrived and that his temporary abode was ready to receive his guest, Rollo Vyse took train to Penzance. After making arrangements for his luggage to be sent on, Vyse set out to walk to Mousehole.
His rôle was that of an artist wishing to make seascapes under winter conditions. There were, he knew, swarms of artists in Newlyn and Mousehole, so that by making out that he was one of them, his presence amongst a strictly conservative body of fisherfolk would not attract so much attention as otherwise.
It was a pleasant walk. Although December was well advanced, the air was mild. The bay looked a perfect picture in the slanting rays of the sun.
"Wonder where Silas's former abode is?" he asked himself as he rounded a bend in the cliff path and saw the secluded little harbour of Mousehole nestling under the cliffs. "I'll ask. It may save my having to retrace my steps."
The first man he met after the decision was a tall bronzed man wearing fisherman's rig, including thigh boots.
"Up-along, Maaster," was the reply. "You'm see chimbly over atop o' yon wall."
Vyse thanked him and went on.
"I've seen that fellow before," he soliloquised. "Where? Dash it! That's done it. He's the mate of the Fairy. I thought he looked a bit straight at me. If he's spotted who I am, then there's trouble ahead."
The recognition had been mutual, and the former mate of the lugger was considerably perturbed at finding Vyse on his way to the cottage where Porthoustoc lived.