"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.
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