"I was attracted to Lyme," he began at length, after a few puffs, " by the fact that it has no railway station, and I rather fancy I had an ancestor who landed there with Monmouth: he was fishing for something big, if you like. Anyhow, we went, and so did the Vincents. While there, Vincent and I became very fond of games of chance, and decided our movements by the turn of a coin. So when my wife wanted a bonnet beyond her quarter's allowance, I tossed her for that or a box of cigars (which I cannot afford to smoke), and we loyally abided by the result. The bonnet mostly won, but it saved a lot of heart-burning.” "You fished, of course?" I put in, as he paused to stamp down the ashes in his pipe.

"Yes: it used to be heads for pollack in a rowing-boat, and tails for mackerel in Flint's Dancing Polly-the identical craft, I believe, that Besant writes about in that charming smuggler story of Rousdon. Heads we walked with the ladies, tails we bathed, and so on; no brain worry."

In the silence that followed I thought it wise to remind my friend that he was going

to warn me against the ambition of youthful anglers, but I might have had more faith: it was all right. Anderson got visibly graver, and helped us both to whisky.

"One morning," he continued, after an eloquent interval, "we had spent a charming time on the sands near that snake-like pier they call the Cobb. We were lunching and discussing the cause of Mary Anne's disappearance two or three days before from the Vincents' lodgings, and each of us took a different view. I said it was spoons,' Vincent suggested fright at the landlady's false teeth, his wife (ignoring my double entendre) thought it was 'some horrid man,' while mine hotly contended that it was a made-up yarn to run the house without a servant, and only an economic ruse. As Mary Anne was publicly reported to have run home to Charmouth, I offered to sail round the bay and investigate, if anyone would give me four to one about my theory; but the idea of sailing put an end to the discussion, and the meal, for the word suggested fishing, and we were soon hailing Flint for boats. It was a glorious afternoon, with just enough breeze for a sail, but not too

much for a row: in our opinion, however, there was too well-meaning a sun for the latter form of exercise, so we let the Vincents take the Susan and the pollack lines, while we raised sail on the Dancing Polly, and stood out to sea with the mackerel tackle. I have not been near the place, or on salt water, since that day."

I thought of saying that this was "odd" or

funny," but somehow, like Brer Rabbit, I kept on "sayin' nothin'," and lay low: it was quite exciting.

"I must tell you," said my host sadly, "that my wife wanted to go on for a week to Charmouth, which is the next place round the bay, you know, while I preferred to stop at Lyme, so as we turned to follow the line of the Devonshire coast, Rousdon way, we arranged (on our plan of leaving it to Fortune to decide) that whoever caught the largest individual fish during the afternoon should be allowed to choose our next week's place of abode; then we began to let out line.

'Nothing of interest happened for about half an hour, and we only made two scientific observations: first, that if you hook the rope of

a lobster pot while sailing through a row of them, it is the mackerel line that gives way, you do not catch any lobsters; the second phenomenon was that in the bright sunlight the sea showed a deep ultramarine on one side of the boat, and a bright emerald on the other. After we had each taken about half a score of fish, I hooked a monster and claimed the prize; but my wife adroitly referred the matter to Flint as arbitrator, and he of course said that one of hers (about half a pound lighter) was quite as large as mine. I was about to enter a formal protest, a sort of general objection to the jurisdiction of the Court, when she shouted from her side of the boat, 'Never mind, this is the biggest, anyhow,' and began to try and haul in her line; but instead of coming, it held taut for a moment, and then ran quickly through her fingers. I was endeavouring at the moment to light my pipe, and having lost several matches in unsuccessful attempts, was agreeably surprised to notice that the breeze had died suddenly away; then the rope which keeps the sail up snapped (which was odd), and down came the sail, bang. Old Flint was

too excited to attend to it, and came aft to see what strange beast, shark or porpoise, we were towing.

"It won't come; it's a rock,' said my wife. "Yes,' I said, 'in twenty fathoms.'

"Then it's only a sunken bundle of weed.' "Nothing else was said. I fancy I see the boat now bearing down slowly and almost broadside on towards that fish: my wife's excited face, Flint's graver, but equally alert, not a breath stirring, and the salt taste on the amber of my pipe. My wife suddenly uttered a shrill cry, fell back into my arms, and fainted dead away. You guess what it was?”

"I have not the vaguest idea," I responded, for I did not like to suggest the sea serpent or a ghost, because there was evidently something real in all this, and contrariwise you never know when Anderson is giving you away; so I said I could not hazard a conjecture.

"I was looking over the side of the boat," he went on," and just as my wife screamed her line broke, and the thing, which was almost at the top of the clear water, sank with a gurgle to rest evermore in the deep: it was Mary Anne."