The Red Redmaynes | Page 4

circles of light widened out on the water and
rippled to the cliff beyond. Then came a heavier rise and from beneath
a great rock, that heaved up from the midst of the smaller pool, a good
fish took a little white moth which had fluttered within reach.
Mark set about his sport, yet felt that a sort of unfamiliar division had
come into his mind and, while he brought two tiny-eyed flies from a
box and fastened them to the hairlike leader he always used, there
persisted the thought of the auburn girl--her eyes blue as April--her
voice so bird-like and untouched with human emotion--her swift,

delicate tread.
He began to fish as the light thickened; but he only cast once or twice
and then decided to wait half an hour. He grounded his rod and brought
a brier pipe and a pouch of tobacco from his pocket. The things of day
were turning to slumber; but still there persisted a clinking sound,
uttered monotonously from time to time, which the sportsman supposed
to be a bird. It came from behind the great acclivities that ran opposite
his place by the pools. Brendon suddenly perceived that it was no
natural noise but arose from some human activity. It was, in fact, the
musical note of a mason's trowel, and when presently it ceased, he was
annoyed to hear heavy footsteps in the quarry--a labourer he guessed.
No labourer appeared, however. A big, broad man approached him,
clad in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers and a red waistcoat with
gaudy brass buttons. He had entered at the lower mouth of the quarries
and was proceeding to the northern exit, whence the little streamlet that
fed the pools came through a narrow pass.
The stranger stopped as he saw Brendon, straddled his great legs, took
a cigar from his mouth and spoke.
"Ah! You've found 'em, then?"
"Found what?" asked the detective.
"Found these trout. I come here for a swim sometimes. I've wondered
why I never saw a rod in this hole. There are a dozen half pounders
there and possibly some bigger ones."
It was Mark's instinctive way to study all fellow creatures with whom
he came in contact. He had an iron memory for faces. He looked up
now and observed the rather remarkable features of the man before him.
His scrutiny was swift and sure; yet had he guessed the tremendous
significance of his glance, or with proleptic vision seen what this being
was to mean during the years of his immediate future, it is certain that
he would have intensified his inspection and extended the brief limits
of their interview.

He saw a pair of broad shoulders and a thick neck over which hung a
square, hard jaw and a determined chin. Then came a big mouth and the
largest pair of mustaches Brendon remembered to have observed on
any countenance. They were almost grotesque; but the stranger was
evidently proud of them, for he twirled them from time to time and
brought the points up to his ears. They were of a foxy red, and beneath
them flashed large, white teeth when the big man talked in rather
grating tones. He suggested one on very good terms with himself--a
being of passionate temperament and material mind. His eyes were
grey, small, set rather wide apart, with a heavy nose between. His hair
was a fiery red, cut close, and of a hue yet more violent than his
mustaches. Even the fading light could not kill his rufous face.
The big man appeared friendly, though Brendon heartily wished him
away.
"Sea fishing's my sport," he said. "Conger and cod, pollack and
mackerel--half a boat load--that's sport. That means tight lines and a
thirst afterward."
"I expect it does."
"But this bally place seems to bewitch people," continued the big man.
"What is it about Dartmoor? Only a desert of hills and stones and
two-penny half-penny streams a child can walk across; and yet--why
you'll hear folk blether about it as though heaven would only be a bad
substitute."
The other laughed. "There is a magic here. It gets into your blood."
"So it does. Even a God-forgotten hole like Princetown with nothing to
see but the poor devils of convicts. A man I know is building himself a
bungalow out here. He and his wife will be just as happy as a pair of
wood pigeons--at least they think so."
"I heard a trowel clinking."
"Yes, I lend a hand sometimes when the workmen are gone. But think

of it--to turn your back on civilization and make yourself a home in a
desert!"
"Might do worse--if you've got no ambitions."
"Yes--ambition is not their strong point. They think love's
enough--poor souls. Why don't you fish?"
"Waiting for it to