He was a man of distinctive appearance,--tall, well-knit, and muscular, with a fine intellectual face and keen clear grey eyes.

Not a very young man;--he seemed about thirty-eight or forty, perhaps more, for his dark hair was fairly sprinkled with silver.

But his manner was irresistibly bright and genial, and it was impossible to meet his frank, open, almost boyish gaze, without a desire to know more of him, and an inclination to like him.
"Do you make the seashore your study ?" asked Helmsley, with a slight gesture towards the notebook into which the stranger was now carefully putting the strayed leaflet.
"Pretty much so!" and he laughed--"I've only got one room to live in--and it has to serve for both sleeping and eating--so I come out here to breathe and expand a bit." He paused, and then added gently--"May I give you my arm up to Miss Deane's cottage ?" "Why, how do you know I live there ?" and Helmsley smiled as he put the question.
"Oh, well, all the village knows that!--and though I'm quite new to the village--I've only been here a week--I know it too.

You're old David, the basket-maker, aren't you ?" "Yes." And Helmsley nodded emphatically--"That's me!" "Then I know all about you! My name's Angus Reay.

I'm a Scotchman,--I am, or rather, I _was_ a journalist, and as poor as Job! That's _me_! Come along!" The cheery magnetism of his voice and look attracted Helmsley, and almost before he knew it he was leaning on this new friend's arm, chatting with him concerning the village, the scenery, and the weather, in the easiest way possible.
"I came on here from Minehead,"-- said Reay--"That was too expensive a place for me!" And a bright smile flashed from lips to eyes with an irresistible sunny effect; "I've got just twenty pounds in the world, and I must make it last me a year.