A novel of mystery. A Dartmoor cliff riddled with caves and tunnels in which the murderer was supposed to lurk almost proved the desperation of Mrs. Pendean and the famous detective, Mark Brendon.
Then came a big mouth and the largest pair of mustaches Brendon remembered to have observed on any countenance. They were almost grotesque; but the stranger was evidently proud of them, for he twirled them from time to time and brought the points up to his ears. They were of a foxy red, and beneath them flashed large, white teeth when the big man talked in rather grating tones. He suggested one on very good terms with himself--a being of passionate temperament and material mind. His eyes were grey, small, set rather wide apart, with a heavy nose between. His hair was a fiery red, cut close, and of a hue yet more violent than his mustaches. Even the fading light could not kill his rufous face.
The big man appeared friendly, though Brendon heartily wished him away.
"Sea fishing's my sport," he said. "Conger and cod, pollack and mackerel--half a boat load--that's sport. That means tight lines and a thirst afterward."
"I expect it does."
"But this bally place seems to bewitch people,"