The main
    promontory is the end of a range of mountains, and looms up vast,
    towering over everything, a mass of sapphire blue. I can well
    understand how the country came to be called the "Land of the Blue
    Mountains," for it is all mountains, and they are all blue! The
    coast-line is magnificent--what is called "iron-bound"--being all
    rocky; sometimes great frowning precipices; sometimes jutting spurs
    of rock; again little rocky islets, now and again clad with trees and
    verdure, at other places stark and bare. Elsewhere are little rocky
    bays and indentations--always rock, and often with long, interesting
    caves. Some of the shores of the bays are sandy, or else ridges of
    beautiful pebbles, where the waves make endless murmur. But of all the places I have seen--in this land or any other--the
    most absolutely beautiful is Vissarion. It stands at the ultimate
    point of the promontory--I mean the little, or, rather, lesser
    promontory--that continues on the spur of the mountain range. For
    the lesser promontory or extension of the mountain is in reality
    vast; the lowest bit of cliff along the sea-front is not less than a
    couple of hundred feet high. That point of rock is really very
    peculiar. I think Dame Nature must, in the early days of her
    housekeeping--or, rather, house-_building_--have intended to give her
    little child, man, a rudimentary lesson in self-protection. It is
    just a natural bastion such as a titanic Vauban might have designed
    in primeval times. So far as the Castle is concerned, it is alone
    visible from the sea. Any enemy approaching could see only that
    frowning wall of black rock, of vast height and perpendicular
    steepness. Even the old fortifications which crown it are not built,
    but cut in the solid rock. A long narrow creek of very deep water,
    walled in by high, steep cliffs, runs in behind the Castle, bending
    north and west, making safe and secret anchorage. Into the creek
    falls over a precipice a mountain-stream, which never fails in volume
    of water. On the western shore of that creek is the Castle, a huge
    pile of buildings of every style of architecture, from the Twelfth
    century to where such things seemed to stop in this dear old-world
    land--about the time of Queen Elizabeth. So it is pretty
    picturesque. I can tell you. When we got the first glimpse of the
    place from the steamer the officer, with whom I was on the bridge,
    pointed towards it and said:

    "That is where we saw the dead woman floating in a coffin." That was
    rather interesting, so I asked him all about it. He took from his
    pocket-book a cutting from an Italian paper, which he handed to me. As I can read and speak Italian fairly well, it was all right; but as
    you, my dear Aunt Janet, are not skilled in languages, and as I doubt
    if there is any assistance of the kind to be had at Croom, I do not
    send it. But as I have heard that the item has been produced in the
    last number of _The Journal of Occultism_, you will be easily able to
    get it. As he handed me the cutting he said: "I am Destilia!" His
    story was so strange that I asked him a good many questions about it. He answered me quite frankly on every point, but always adhering
    stoutly to the main point--namely, that it was no phantom or mirage,
    no dream or imperfect vision in a fog. "We were four in all who saw
    it," he said--"three from the bridge and the Englishman,
    Caulfield--from the bows--whose account exactly agreed with what we
    saw. Captain Mirolani and Falamano and I were all awake and in good
    trim. We looked with our night-glasses, which are more than usually
    powerful. You know, we need good glasses for the east shore of the
    Adriatic and for among the islands to the south. There was a full
    moon and a brilliant light. Of course we were a little way off, for
    though the Spear of Ivan is in deep water, one has to be careful of
    currents, for it is in just such places that the dangerous currents
    run." The agent of Lloyd's told me only a few weeks ago that it was
    only after a prolonged investigation of the tidal and sea currents
    that the house decided to except from ordinary sea risks losses due
    to a too close course by the Spear of Ivan. When I tried to get a
    little more definite account of the coffin-boat and the dead lady
    that is given in _The Journal of Occultism_ he simply shrugged his
    shoulders. "Signor, it is all," he said. "That Englishman wrote
    everything after endless questioning." So you see, my dear, that our new home is not without superstitious
    interests of its own. It is rather a nice idea, is it not, to have a
    dead woman cruising round our promontory in a coffin? I doubt if
    even at Croom you can beat that. "Makes the place kind of homey," as
    an American would say. When you come, Aunt Janet, you will not feel
    lonesome, at any rate, and it will save us the trouble of importing
    some of your Highland ghosts to make you feel at home in the new
    land. I don't know, but we might ask the stiff to come to tea with
    us. Of course, it would be a late tea. Somewhere between midnight
    and cock-crow would be about the etiquette of the thing, I fancy! But I must tell you all the realities of the Castle and around it. So I will write again within a day or two, and try to let you know
    enough to prepare you for coming here. Till then adieu, my dear. Your loving
                                                                   RUPERT. _From Rupert Sent Leger_, _Vissarion_, _to Janet MacKelpie_, _Croom_. _January_ 25, 1907. I hope I did not frighten you, dear Aunt Janet, by the yarn of the
    lady in the coffin. But I know you are not afraid; you have told me
    too many weird stories for me to dread that. Besides, you have
    Second Sight--latent, at all events. However, there won't be any
    more ghosts, or about ghosts, in this letter. I want to tell you all
    about our new home. I am so glad you are coming out so soon; I am
    beginning to feel so lonesome--I walk about sometimes aimlessly, and
    find my thoughts drifting in such an odd way. If I didn't know
    better, I might begin to think I was in love! There is no one here
    to be in love with; so make your mind easy, Aunt Janet. Not that you
    would be unhappy, I know, dear, if I _did_ fall in love. I suppose I
    must marry some day. It is a duty now, I know, when there is such an
    estate as Uncle Roger has left me. And I know this: I shall never
    marry any woman unless I love her. And I am right sure that if I do
    love her you will love her, too, Aunt Janet! Won't you, dear? It
    wouldn't be half a delight if you didn't. It won't if you don't. There, now!