“Mr. Cook, you don’t tell me that as a man of the world you believe in that superstition, especially after what you have told me about the money!”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” said the other, “the villagers will tell you something outside the pale, but I have it in mind that there is something much more tangible; something connected with the past, perhaps, and I am not at all sure that that ruffian Southgate at the Black Horse does not know a bit about it. He came here the other day wanting to buy a bungalow, and I am sure he never made the money out of that old pub of his.”
After talking on general matters for a few minutes, Fletcher took his leave.
As he made his way along the road deep in thought, he was aware of two people coming to meet him. They were conversing in eager tones, and did not notice him. One of the two was Miss Sefton, the other a tall good-looking young man with light hair.
Fletcher greeted them and was introduced to Jack Sefton by his sister. He was quick to notice that there was a restless worried look about the man, as though his nerve had gone. They turned together and walked along the foreshore.
“What do you think of this place, Mr. Fletcher?” said Ena.
Before he could reply Sefton had intervened.
“It’s a rotten show,” he said, “and you will be bored to death before long. I am sick of it already.”
Ena looked at her brother as though surprised at his tone, but he stopped and said bitterly:
“You see, beggars can’t be choosers, and my sister and I are compelled to live in this God-forsaken hole until the visitors come, and then I suppose we shall be kicked out.”