obstructing gate, and the chauffeur drove his machine through, the wheels sinking deep into the sand. Stranleigh stepped out of the car to stretch his limbs. Blake, closing the gate, came alongside, looking doubtfully at the automobile.
"I hope," said Blake, "you can get it out of here."
"Can you turn round, Henri?" asked Stranleigh.
"Of a surety, my lord," replied the confident Frenchman.
"Then I think you'd better drive back through the gateway again, where you will be on firm ground at least."
While Henri accomplished this, Stranleigh and Blake walked across the cove towards a mill-house that stood beside the stream, and from this building several children peered out at the wonderful machine, the like of which they had probably never seen before. Opposite the cottage, by the very edge of the sea, stood the ruins of a stone structure, roofless, its walls concealed by a luxurious growth of vegetation.
"That," said Stranleigh, "is the remains of Lannacombe Mill, and, curiously enough, it is in a way an object-lesson on the theme of our correspondent who would put me in prison. During our last war with France a privateer sent a boatload of men into this cove. They took from the miller every-
