To one who sees it for the first time, the moon casting shadows over the rugged cliffs and painting a path of gold across the sea is a gorgeous sight.
Slipping silently to the top of the steps leading to the path, she stood there in the shadows.
Then, for some reason, or perhaps none at all—she snapped on the flashlight she held in her hand to paint her own path of gold down the gravel walk.
Then it was that she got a shock, for there, half hidden by the broad stone post of the street wall stood a man. He wore no hat. White hair gleamed over a round face. In his hand he held a black box with a reflector at the top, the sort of camera used most by newspaper men and other professionals.
To say that she was startled would be to put it mildly. This mood ended quickly, for the man snapped at her in the voice of an angry dog:
“Keep your light to yourself! This is a public street. I’ll stand here as long as I choose.”
Turning about, the girl marched back into the hotel. She was trembling all over.
“Right out of that story,” she whispered. “Halfway round the world.”
As she climbed the stairs she thought. “I’ll not tell a soul. I didn’t really see him—just imagined it.”
As if to verify this, she went to her window and looked down. The moonlight was brighter now. There was no one by the gate. And yet, cold reason told her she had seen that man beside the pillar.