IX.

Lyndall's Stranger.
A fire is burning in the unused hearth of the cabin.

The fuel blazes up, and lights the black rafters, and warms the faded red lions on the quilt, and fills the little room with a glow of warmth and light made brighter by contrast, for outside the night is chill and misty.
Before the open fireplace sits a stranger, his tall, slight figure reposing in the broken armchair, his keen blue eyes studying the fire from beneath delicately pencilled, drooping eyelids.

One white hand plays thoughtfully with a heavy flaxen moustache; yet, once he starts, and for an instant the languid lids raise themselves; there is a keen, intent look upon the face as he listens for something.

Then he leans back in his chair, fills his glass from the silver flask in his bag, and resumes his old posture.
Presently the door opens noiselessly.