Vale was lounging on the steps of his porch, alone with his pipe. The night was intensely dark and opulently warm. The lake lay tranquil and dark as though sleeping, touched only by the light on some anchored schooner, and a faint glimmer of star-shine. In the stress of summer work the unused lawn, on the side of the house next Chard's, had been allowed to grow tall and rank. This evening Newbigging had mowed it and he now lay prone upon one of the mounds of moist, sweet-smelling grass. Vale could not see him, but the knowledge that he was there brought a comfortable sense of companionship. Of the four men in the house he liked this reckless, fair-haired Scot best. Windmill was aloof, reticent, often brooding, though his quick smile was pleasant; Gunn was lazy, and sometimes quarrelsome as he expounded his socialistic opinions in the kitchen; while Hugh McKay was always preoccupied with lambs or Phœbe.
Newbigging struck a match and lighted a cigarette. Vale had a fleeting glimpse of his head and shoulders before he settled himself once more. A sudden chill air rose from the lake and enveloped Grimstone like an embrace from the tomb. It seemed to penetrate to the very bone.
"Lord!" exclaimed Newbigging. "D'ye feel that, sir?"
"I've often noticed it at night. It will pass."
It passed. Quickly as it had come, and a tide of warm air rushed in to take its place. The night became sultry.
70
