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.
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