"Up that cobbled road to the right, Peter," said Hugh when we had gone halfway round, "is the Dolphin Inn. A famed resort for smugglers in the old days, and an extraordinarily good pub now. On your left is the road to Hastings, but we go straight on up to the higher ground."
We crossed the railway line, and another three miles brought us to Hugh's house, where I dropped my baggage. As he said, the view over the Marsh was wonderful: it lay spread out in front of us like an aeroplane photograph.
"If you look through the telescope," he remarked, "you'll see it is focussed on Spragge's Farm."
I adjusted the eyepiece and found that I could make out every detail of the house. Almost could I see the handle on the front door so powerful was the instrument. But though I kept my eye glued to it f
