He stood for a while, listening intently, the cigarette burning away between his fingers. Then, stooping a little, he passed out into the 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.