The Devils Paw | Page 9

now only a depository for the storing of life belts. In front of him he
could trace the bank of shingle and the line of the sea, and presently the
outline of some dark object, lying just out of reach of the breaking
waves, attracted his attention. He watched it steadily. For some time it
was as motionless as the log he presumed it to be. Then, without any
warning, it hunched itself up and drew a little farther back. There was
no longer any doubt. It was a human being, lying on its stomach with
its head turned to the sea.
Julian, who had entered upon his adventure with the supercilious
incredulity of a staunch unbeliever invited to a spiritualist's seance, was
conscious for a moment of an absolutely new sensation. A person of
acute psychological instincts, he found himself analysing that sensation
almost as soon as it was conceived.
"There is no doubt," he confessed under his breath, "that I am afraid!"

His heart was beating with unaccustomed vigour; he was conscious of
an acute tingling in all his senses. Then, still lying on his stomach,
almost holding his breath, he saw the thin line of light from an electric
torch steal out along the surface of the sea, obviously from the hand of
his fellow watcher. Almost at that same moment the undefined
agitation which had assailed him passed. He set his teeth and watched
that line of light. It moved slowly sideways along the surface of the sea,
as though searching for something. Julian drew himself cautiously, inch
by inch, to the extremity of the sand hummock. His brain was working
with a new clearness. An inspiration flashed in upon him during those
few seconds. He knew the geography of the place well, - the corner of
the barn, the steeple beyond, and the watcher lying in a direct line. His
cipher was explained!
Perfectly cool now, Julian thought with some regret of the revolver
which he had scorned to bring. He occupied himself, during these
seconds of watching, by considering with care what his next action was
to be. If he even set his foot upon the shingle, the watcher below would
take alarm, and if he once ran away, pursuit was hopeless. The figure,
so far as he could distinguish it, was more like that of a boy than a man.
Julian began to calculate coolly the chances of an immediate
intervention. Then things happened, and for a moment he held his
breath.
The line of light had shot out once more, and this time it seemed to
reveal something, something which rose out of the water and which
looked like nothing so much as a long strip of zinc piping. The watcher
at the edge of the sea threw down his torch and gripped the end of it,
and Julian, carried away with excitement, yielded to an instant and
overpowering temptation. He flashed on his own torch and watched
while the eager figure seemed by some means to unscrew the top of the
coil and drew from it a dark, rolled-up packet. Even at that supreme
moment, the slim figure upon the beach seemed to become conscious
of the illumination of which he was the centre. He swung round, - and
that was just as far as Julian Orden got in his adventure. After a lapse of
time, during which he seemed to live in a whirl of blackness, where a
thousand men were beating at a thousand anvils, filling the world with

sparks, with the sound of every one of their blows reverberating in his
ears, he opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back, with one leg
in a pool of salt water, which was being dashed industriously into his
face by an unseen hand. By his side he was conscious of the presence
of a thick-set man in a fisherman's costume of brown oilskins and a
southwester pulled down as though to hide his features, obviously the
man who had dealt him the blow. Then he heard a very soft, quiet voice
behind him.
"He will do now. Come."
The man by his side grunted.
"I am going to make sure of him," he said thickly. Again he heard that
clear voice from behind, this time a little raised. The words failed to
reach his brain, but the tone was one of cold and angry dissent,
followed by an imperative order. Then once more his senses seemed to
be leaving him. He passed into the world which seemed to consist only
of himself and a youth in fisherman's oilskins, who was sometimes
Furley, sometimes his own sister, sometimes the figure of a person who
for the last twenty-four hours had been continually in his thoughts, who
seemed at one moment