“You are an artist, I am informed,” returned Monk.
“Something of that sort,” was the reply. “I paint a little for pleasure.”
“And do you find this neighbourhood suit your purpose?—It is somewhat flat and unpicturesque.”
“I rather like it,” answered Brinkley. “It is pretty in summer; it must be splendid in winter, when the storms begin, and the uneventful career of our friend William Jones is varied by the excitement of wrecks.” How Monk’s forehead darkened! But his face smiled still as he said—
“It is not often that shipwrecks occur now, I am glad to say.”
“No,” said Brinkley, drily. “They used to be common enough fifteen years ago.” Their eyes met, and the eyes of Monk were full of fierce suspicion.
“Why fifteen years ago, especially?”
The young man shrugged his shoulders.
“I was told only to-day of the loss of one great ship, at that time. Matt told me, the little foundling. You know Matt, of course?”
“I know whom you mean. Excuse me, but you seem to be very familiar with her name?”