The Devils Paw | Page 3

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The Devil's Paw
by E. Phillips Oppenheim
CHAPTER I

The two men, sole occupants of the somewhat shabby cottage parlour,
lingered over their port, not so much with the air of wine lovers, but
rather as human beings and intimates, perfectly content with their
surroundings and company. Outside, the wind was howling over the
marshes, and occasional bursts of rain came streaming against the
window panes. Inside at any rate was comfort, triumphing over varying
conditions. The cloth upon the plain deal table was of fine linen, the
decanter and glasses were beautifully cut; there were walnuts and, in a
far Corner, cigars of a well-known brand and cigarettes from a famous
tobacconist. Beyond that little oasis, however, were all the evidences of
a hired abode. A hole in the closely drawn curtains was fastened
together by a safety pin. The horsehair easy-chairs bore disfiguring

antimacassars, the photographs which adorned the walls were grotesque
but typical of village ideals, the carpet was threadbare, the closed door
secured by a latch instead of the usual knob. One side of the room was
littered with golf clubs, a huge game bag and several boxes of
cartridges. Two shotguns lay upon the remains of a sofa. It scarcely
needed the costume of Miles Furley, the host, to demonstrate the fact
that this was the temporary abode of a visitor to the Blakeney marshes
in search of sport.
Furley, broad-shouldered, florid, with tanned skin and grizzled hair,
was still wearing the high sea boots and jersey of the duck shooter. His
companion, on the other hand, a tall, slim man, with high forehead,
clear eyes, stubborn jaw, and straight yet sensitive mouth, wore the
ordinary dinner clothes of civilisation. The contrast between the two
men might indeed have afforded some ground for speculation as to the
nature of their intimacy. Furley, a son of the people, had the air of
cultivating, even clinging to a certain plebeian strain, never so apparent
as when he spoke, or in his gestures. He was a Member of Parliament
for a Labour constituency, a shrewd and valuable exponent of the
gospel of the working man. What he lacked in the higher qualities of
oratory he made up in sturdy common sense. The will-o'-the-wisp
Socialism of the moment, with its many attendant "isms" and theories,
received scant favour at his hands. He represented the solid element in
British Labour politics, and it was well