He would take refuge in his
work, and forget them.
But late that night he awoke from troubled sleep to hear Ellis Grant
laugh again in careless triumph--the laugh of the man who knows that he
has drawn a prize.
* * * * *
It was not a restful night for Randal Courteney, and in the early
morning he was out again, striding over the sunlit sands towards his own
particular bathing-cove beyond the breakwater.
The tide was coming in, and the dashing water filled all the world with
its music. A brisk wind was blowing, and the waves were high.
It was the sort of sea that Courteney revelled in, and he trusted that,
at that early hour, he would be free from all intrusion. So accustomed
to privacy was he that he had come to regard the place almost as his
own.
But as he topped the breakwater he came upon a sight that made him draw
back in disgust. A white mackintosh lay under a handful of stones upon
the shingly beach. He surveyed it suspiciously, with the air of a man
who fears that he is about to walk into a trap.
Then, his eyes travelling seaward, he spied a red cap bobbing up and
down in the spray of the dancing waves.
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