"I can
assure you that I went out, the night before last, simply to make
one of the rounds which falls to my lot when I am in this part of
the world and nominated for duty. There are eleven of us between
here and Sheringham, special constables of a humble branch of the
secret service, if you like to put it so. We are a well-known
institution amongst the initiated. I've plodded these marshes
sometimes from midnight till daybreak, and although one's always
hearing rumours, until last night I have never seen or heard of a
single unusual incident."
"You had no idea, then," Julian persisted, "what it was that you
were on the look-out for the night before last? You had no idea,
say, from any source whatever, that there was going to be an
attempt on the part of the enemy to communicate with friends on
this side?"
"Good God, no! Even to have known it would have been treason."
"You admit that?"
Furley drew himself stiffly up in his chair. His mass of brown
hair seemed more unkempt than usual, his hard face sterner than
ever by reason of its disfiguring frown.
"What the hell do you mean, Julian?"
"I mean," Julian replied, "that I have reason to suspect you,
Furley, of holding or attempting to hold secret communication with
an enemy country."
The pipestem which he was holding snapped in Furley's fingers.
His eyes were filled with fury.
"Damn you, Julian!" he exclaimed. "If I could stand on two legs,
I'd break your head. How dare you come here and talk such
rubbish.
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