"I haven't made any exact inquiries, sir—but from the tongue and from general appearances I believe we're on a remote part of the western coast of Ireland. Nice people, sir—but a bit superstitious."
"Superstitious? What do you mean?" asked Byfield.
"Well, sir—luckily for us, they're a little bit afraid of that bit of land we've called an island; there's a sort of feeling among them that it's haunted, sir."
"Haunted?"
"Yes, sir. It seems that there was a man who had a big house here who went a bit off his head, sir; and one day, when the tide was low, he slipped across to that bit of land, and had a look at it. He liked it, sir—and he liked the loneliness; so he got them to bring timber and so on out to him, and build him that shed that we first found on the day of our arrival. After that, sir," went on Pringle, "he liked it so much that he lived there altogether; cooked his own food, sir, and made a sort of hermit of himself. And then one day took it into his head to die, sir."
"Not a word of this to the ladies, mind," said Gilbert hastily.
"Not for the world, sir," responded Pringle solemnly. "It seems, sir, that somebody came out to him, to bring food or something or other, and found that he'd passed away, sir; and ever since then there's been a feeling that his ghost is knocking about, sir—unquiet like. Consequently no one comes to the place—which is a bit fortunate for us, sir."
"I'm glad you think it's fortunate, Pringle," retorted Gilbert. "And pray what explanation have you given of your purchases, and your surreptitious visits to the village?"
Pringle got up from the box, and passed a hand slowly across his mouth; it was as though with that action he wiped away a smile that would not have been becoming to the situation. "Well, sir, you see, I found it a bit difficult at first, sir; the natives were what you might call a bit avaricious, and had a fancy for running over to the island, and selling things that they didn't actually want to keep themselves. So havin' discovered, sir, about the last tenant, I was careful to spread it about that you was another one of the same kidney, sir; and I never said a word about anybody else bein' there at all. I hope you'll excuse the liberty, sir—but something had to be done under the circumstances. As a matter of fact, sir, of course they were only too willin' to be quiet, because I've been rather a good customer to the village, one way and another, sir."
The sheer absurdity of the thing was borne in again upon Gilbert Byfield. From where he sat he could see the path leading down the narrow strip of sand; beyond that the great wall of rock—and beyond that (in his imagination, at least) the little company who had been playing, all unconsciously, that game of privation and starvation for weeks past. He thought of how the business had begun—far away in Arcadia Street; of that mad race to the yacht; of this madder business on an island that had never been an island at all. He thought of the outrageous costumes carefully made from comic-opera material supplied by the resourceful Pringle: and he told himself bitterly enough that the one being for whom it had all been done, and for whom the sorry business had been kept up, would believe less than ever that the man had not planned it all himself in sheer mockery of her.