He took moody walks about the straggling town or along the deserted promenade to the fishy but artistic Newlyn, where he would stroll aimlessly through the steep and narrow streets or stand and gaze out over the froth-capped waves of the bay to where St. Michael's Mount rose a gaunt, grey silhouette in the prevailing gloom. The evenings he spent in the cosy little bar at the back of the hotel.
The papers, which he devoured greedily, were silent on the Kyser mystery, and Edward could only speculate on the way things were going, and he smiled as he wondered if they had arrested Uncle Jasper yet.
He had written a long and comprehensive letter to the Princess, acquainting her with all the facts of her birth and the tragedy which had followed it, and of his mission. It had seemed to him a far easier course than telling her all the details personally. He referred her to her nurse for all particulars, and he told her that it was in deference to Mr. Baxendale's wish that he was deferring the pleasure of calling upon her until the actual day of her birthday.
Edward admitted to himself that there was a suggestion of nervousness in his manner as he made a more than usually studied toilet. He took simplicity and dignity as the keynotes of his attire, choosing a black cravat and black _suède_ gloves as a mark of respect for the tragedy in the case. This he looked upon as an inspiration and one calculated to make a good impression upon the Princess. His brown shoes, too, he discarded for a serviceable pair of black walking boots, it being his intention to walk the three or four miles to Tremoor. He stopped at a florist's and purchased a little bouquet of white roses.
The promise of the early morning had been duly fulfilled, and the sun shone a glorious augury on the undertaking, as at ten-thirty he left the hotel.
The road he took was one to the north-west, and, after leaving the town behind, it led him into a treeless, desolated district of wild moors and granite-strewn carns. Villages of a few houses, scattered here and there, showed white-washed walls and grey lichen-patched roofs against the golden glory of the bracken. Across the moor broken stone hedges straggled out at odd angles, and buildings falling into decay, roofless and with floorings of rank vegetation, spoke of the time when this district was populated by men engaged in wresting the wealth of tin from its fastnesses in Mother Earth. A cluster of dead mine buildings showed gauntly upon the horizon, their tall chimneys and ruined engine-houses crumbling into decay--a very Pompeii of Industry. From the high ground the sea could be seen on two sides--facing him to the north the Atlantic, whilst to the south the waters of Mount's Bay reflected the blue of the cloudless sky.