to tenderfeet on their first acquaintance with the mountain people, was surely upon me. I think that the school of the forest teaches, first of all, to look long and sharply while you have a chance. The naturalist who follows the trail of wild game, even the sportsman knows this same fact—for the wild creatures are incredibly furtive and give one only a second’s glimpse. I instinctively tried to learn all I could of the gray old servant in the instant that I shook his hand.

He was the butler, now and forever, and I wondered if, beneath that gray skin, he were really human at all. Did he know human passion, human ambition and desires: sheltered in his master’s house, was he set apart from the lusts and the madnesses, the calms and the storms, the triumphs and the defeats that made up the lives of other men? Yet his gray, rather dim old eyes told me nothing. There were no fires, visible to me, glowing in their depths. A human clam—better still, a gray mole that lives out his life in darkness.

From him we passed up the stairs and to a big, cool study that apparently joined his bedroom. There were desks and chairs and a letter file. Edith Nealman was writing at the typewriter.

If I had ever supposed that the girl had taken the position of her uncle’s secretary merely as a girlish whim, or in some emergency until a permanent secretary could be secured, I was swiftly disillusioned. There was nothing of the amateur in the way her supple fingers flew over the keys. She had evidently had training in a business college; and her attitude towards Nealman was simply that of a secretary towards her employer. She leaned back as if waiting for orders.

“You can go, if you like, Edith,” Nealman told her. “I’m going to talk awhile with Killdare, here, and you wouldn’t be able to work anyway.”

She got up; and she threw me a smile of welcome and friendliness as she walked out the study door.

CHAPTER IV

Nealman had me take a chair, then seated himself before the window from which he could overlook the lagoon. “I always like to sit where I can watch it,” he told me—rather earnestly, I thought. “I can’t see much of it—just a glimpse—but that’s worth while. The room I’ve designated for your use has even a better view. You can’t imagine, Killdare, until you’ve lived with it, how really marvelous it is—how many colors play in the lagoon itself, and in the waves as they break over the Bridge——”

“The Bridge——”

“That’s the name we’ve given to the natural rock wall that cuts off the lagoon—rather, the inlet—from the open sea,” he explained.

“It’s one of the most interesting natural formations I’ve ever seen,” I told him.

“It is, isn’t it?” He spoke with genuine enthusiasm. “And don’t the crags take peculiar shapes around it? You see it makes a veritable salt-water lake out of all this end of the inlet. But Killdare—if you can overlook the dreariness and the desolation of it all, it certainly is beautiful——”

I nodded. “With a creepy kind of beauty,” I told him. “I wish some great artist could come here and paint it. But it would take a great one—to get the atmosphere. I’ve never seen a more wonderful place for a distinguished home.”

It was rather remarkable how pleased he was by the words—particularly coming from a humble employee. Evidently Kastle Krags was close to his heart. His face glowed and his eye kindled.

“I’m wild about it myself,” he confessed. “My friends want to know why I bought such a place—miles from a habitation—and guy me for a hermit, and all that. Once they see the place, and its devilish fascination gets hold of ’em, they won’t want to leave.”

From thence the talk led to business, and he questioned me in regard to the game and fish of the region. I assured him that his friends would have sport in plenty, that I knew where to lead them to turkey and partridge, and that no better fishing could be found in the whole south than in the Ochakee River. He seemed satisfied with my knowledge of the country; and told me a little of his own plans. Just as Edith Nealman had told me, he was planning a week’s fish and hunt for a half dozen of his man friends, beginning a fortnight from then. They were coming a long way—so he wanted to give them sport of the best. The servant problem had been easily solved—he had recruited from the negro section of the nearest city—but until he had talked with my friend, Mr. Todd, he had been at a loss as to where he could procure a suitable guide.

“I’d like to have a guide for each man, if I could,” he went on, “but of course they are not to be found. Besides, only a small part of the party will want to go out at once. Most of them will be content to hang around here, drinking my brandies and fishing in the lagoon.”

“How is fishing in the lagoon?” I asked.

“The best. Sometimes we even take tarpon. All kinds of rock fish—and they fight like fiends. The rocks are just full of little crevices and caves, and I suppose the fish live in ’em. These same crevices are the source of one of the most interesting of the many legends connected with this house.”

It’s a dull man that doesn’t love legends, and I felt my interest stirring. “There are some tales here, eh?”

“Tales! Man, that’s one of the reasons I bought the place.”

Nealman needed no further urging. Evidently the old stories that almost invariably accumulate about such an ancient and famous manor-house as this, had the greatest fascination for him; and he was glad of the chance to narrate them to any listener. He lighted a cigarette: then turned to me with glistening eyes.

“Of course I don’t believe them,” he began. “Don’t get that in your head for an instant. All these old houses have some such yarns. But they surely do lend a flavor to the place—and I wouldn’t have them disproved for thousands of dollars. And one of them—the one I just referred to—surely is a corker.”

He straightened in his chair, and spoke more earnestly. “Killdare, you’re not troubled with a too-active imagination?”

“I’ll take a chance on it,” I told him.

“I’ve seen a few men, in my time, that I wouldn’t tell such a yarn to for love nor money—especially when they are doomed to stay around here for a few weeks. You won’t believe it, but some men are so nervous, so naturally credulous, that they’d actually have some unpleasant dreams about it. But I consider it one of the finest attractions of the place.

“The yarn’s very simple. About 1840, a schooner, sailing under the Portuguese flag, sailed from Rio de Janeiro. Her name was the Arganil, she had a mixed cargo, and she was bound for New Orleans. These are facts, Killdare. You can ascertain them any time from the marine records. But we can’t go much further.

“Among the crew were two brothers, Jason by name. Legend says that they were Englishmen, but what Englishmen were doing on a Portuguese ship I can’t tell you. The name, however, might easily be South-European—it appears, you remember, in Greek mythology. Now this point also has some indications of truth. There was certainly one Jason, at least, shipped as boatswain—the position of the other is considerably in doubt.

“Now we’ve got to get down to a matter of legend, yet with some substance of truth. The story goes that there was a treasure chest on the