The Devils Paw | Page 7

narrow passage and opened the door into the kitchen behind, from

which the woman who came to minister to their wants had some time
ago departed. Everything was in order here and spotlessly neat. He
climbed the narrow staircase, looked in at Furley's room and his own,
and at the third apartment, in which had been rigged up a temporary
bath. The result was unilluminating. He turned and descended the
stairs.
"Either," he went on, with a very slight frown, "I am not psychic, or
whatever may be happening is happening out of doors."
He raised the latch of the door, under which a little pool of water was
now standing, and leaned out. There seemed to be a curious cessation
of immediate sounds. From somewhere straight ahead of him, on the
other side of that black velvet curtain of darkness, came the dull
booming of the wind, tearing across the face of the marshes; and
beyond it, beating time in a rhythmical sullen roar, the rise and fall of
the sea upon the shingle. But near at hand, for some reason, there was
almost silence. The rain had ceased, the gale for a moment had spent
itself. The strong, salty moisture was doubly refreshing after the
closeness of the small, lamplit room. Julian lingered there for several
moments.
"Nothing like fresh air," he muttered, "for driving away fancies."
Then he suddenly stiffened. He leaned forward into the dark, listening.
This time there was no mistake. A cry, faint and pitiful though it was,
reached his ears distinctly.
"Julian! Julian!"
"Coming, old chap," he shouted. "Wait until I get a torch."
He stepped quickly back into the sitting room, drew an electric torch
from the drawer of the homely little chiffonier and, regardless of
regulations, stepped once more out into the darkness, now pierced for
him by that single brilliant ray. The door opened on to a country road
filled with gleaming puddles. On the other side of the way was a strip
of grass, sloping downwards; then a broad dyke, across which hung the

remains of a footbridge. The voice came from the water, fainter now
but still eager. Julian hurried forward, fell on his knees by the side of
the dyke and, passing his hands under his friend's shoulders, dragged
him out of the black, sluggish water.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "What happened, Miles? Did you slip?"
"The bridge-gave way when I was half across," was the muttered
response. "I think my leg's broken. I fell in and couldn't get clear - just
managed to raise my head out of the water and cling to the rail."
"Hold tight," Julian enjoined. "I'm going to drag you across the road.
It's the best I can do."
They reached the threshold of the sitting room.
"Sorry, old chap," faltered Furley - and fainted.
He came to himself in front of the sitting-room fire, to find his lips wet
with brandy and his rescuer leaning over him. His first action was to
feel his leg.
"That's all right," Julian assured him. "It isn't broken. I've been over it
carefully. If, you're quite comfortable, I'll step down to the village and
fetch the medico. It isn't a mile away."
"Don't bother about the doctor for a moment," Furley begged. "Listen
to me. Take your torch - go out and examine that bridge. Come back
and tell me what's wrong with it."
"What the dickens does that matter?" Julian objected. "It's the doctor
we want. The dyke's flooded, and I expect the supports gave way."
"Do as I ask," Furley insisted. "I have a reason."
Julian rose to his feet, walked cautiously to the edge of the dyke, turned
on his light, and looked downwards. One part of the bridge remained;
the other was caught in the weeds, a few yards down, and the single
plank which formed its foundation was sawn through, clean and

straight. He gazed at it for a moment in astonishment. Then he turned
back towards the cottage, to receive another shock. About forty yards
up the lane, drawn in close to a straggling hedge, was a small motor-car,
revealed to him by a careless swing of his torch. He turned sharply
towards it, keeping his torch as much concealed as possible. It was
empty - a small coupe of pearl-grey - a powerful two-seater, with deep,
cushioned seats and luxuriously fitted body. He flashed his torch on to
the maker's name and returned thoughtfully to his friend.
"Miles," he confessed, as he entered the sitting room, "there are some
things I will never make fun of again. Have you a personal enemy
here?"
"Not one," replied Furley. "The soldiers, who are all decent fellows, the
old farmer at the back, and your father and mother are the only people
with whom