The Devils Paw | Page 6

the whole of the eastern coast of Great Britain into small,
rectangular districts, each about a couple of miles square. One of our
secret service chaps got hold of a map some time ago."
"No, I never heard this," Julian acknowledged. "Well?"
"It's only a coincidence, of course," Furley went on, "but number
thirty-eight happens to be the two-mile block of seacoast of which this
cottage is just about the centre. It stretches to Cley on one side and
Salthouse on the other, and inland as far as Dutchman's Common. I am
not suggesting that there is any real connection between your cable and
this fact, but that you should mention it at this particular moment - well,
as I said, it's a coincidence."
"Why?"
Furley had risen to his feet. He threw open the door and listened for a
moment in the passage. When he came back he was carrying some
oilskins.
"Julian," he said, "I know you area bit of a cynic about espionage and
that sort of thing. Of course, there has been a terrible lot of
exaggeration, and heaps of fellows go gassing about secret service jobs,

all the way up the coast from here to Scotland, who haven't the least
idea what the thing means. But there is a little bit of it done, and in my
humble way they find me an occasional job or two down here. I won't
say that anything ever comes of our efforts - we're rather like the
special constables of the secret service - but just occasionally we come
across something suspicious."
"So that's why you're going out again to-night, is it?"
Furley nodded.
"This is my last night. I am off up to town on Monday and 'shan't be
able to get down again this season."
"Had any adventures?"
"Not the ghost of one. I don't mind admitting that I've had a good many
wettings and a few scares on that stretch of marshland, but I've never
seen or heard anything yet to send in a report about. It just happens,
though, that to-night there's a special vigilance whip out."
"What does that mean?" Julian enquired curiously.
"Something supposed to be up," was the dubious reply. "We've a very
imaginative chief, I might tell you."
"But what sort of thing could happen?" Julian persisted. "What are you
out to prevent, anyway?"
Furley relit his pipe, thrust a flask into his pocket, and picked up a thick
stick from a corner of the room.
"Can't tell," he replied laconically. "There's an idea, of course, that
communications are carried on with the enemy from somewhere down
this coast. Sorry to leave you, old fellow," he added. "Don't sit up. I
never fasten the door here. Remember to look after your fire upstairs,
and the whisky is on the sideboard here."
"I shall be all right, thanks," Julian assured his host. "No use my

offering to come with you, I suppose?"
"Not allowed," was the brief response.
"Thank heavens!" Julian exclaimed piously, as a storm of rain blew in
through the half-open door. "Good night and good luck, old chap!"
Furley's reply was drowned in the roar of wind. Julian secured the door,
underneath which a little stream of rain was creeping in. Then he
returned to the sitting room, threw a log upon the fire, and drew one of
the ancient easy-chairs close up to the blaze.
CHAPTER II
Julian, notwithstanding his deliberate intention of abandoning himself
to an hour's complete repose, became, after the first few minutes of
solitude, conscious of a peculiar and increasing sense of restlessness.
With the help of a rubber-shod stick which leaned against his chair, he
rose presently to his feet and moved about the room, revealing a
lameness which had the appearance of permanency. In the small,
white-ceilinged apartment his height became more than ever noticeable,
also the squareness of his shoulders and the lean vigour of his frame.
He handled his gun for a moment and laid it down; glanced at the card
stuck in the cheap looking glass, which announced that David Grice let
lodgings and conducted shooting parties; turned with a shiver from the
contemplation of two atrocious oleographs, a church calendar pinned
upon the wall, and a battered map of the neighbourhood, back to the
table at which he had been seated. He selected a cigarette and lit it.
Presently he began to talk to himself, a habit which had grown upon
him during the latter years of a life whose secret had entailed a certain
amount of solitude.
"Perhaps," he murmured, "I am psychic. Nevertheless, I am convinced
that something is happening, something not far away."
He stood for a while, listening intently, the cigarette burning away
between his fingers. Then, stooping a little, he passed out into the