And the man was not a pleasant sight! The slime, the water and the mud! The Stygian blackness that seemed to mock and jeer2 at the puny3 ray of the flashlight! The lap-lap-lap of the wavelets that echoed back in hollow, ghostly whispers from the flooring of the boathouse above! And Runnells, grovelling4, drawing in his breath with loud sucking sounds. Noises of sea and air—indefinable—all discordant—like imps5 in jubilee6! It was a ghouls' hole!
But Captain Francis Newcombe smiled—with a thin parting of the lips. He knew a sudden elation7, a stupendous uplift. He found joy in each of those abominable8 marks on the face of the Thing that lay at the end of his flashlight's ray. They were not pretty—but they were all too few!
"Got your wind up, has it, Runnells?" he sneered—and thereafter for a moment, though he never let Runnells entirely9 out of the light's focus, gave his fuller attention to Paul Cremarre.
The man was dead, wasn't he? It was a matter that could not be left in doubt—even where doubt seemed to be dispelled10 at a glance. He bent11 down over the other. An instant's examination satisfied him. The man was dead. His eyes roved over the body, and held suddenly on one of the man's hands. Rather peculiar12, that! The hand was tightly clenched13. One did not ordinarily die with one hand clenched and the other open! He forced the hand open. Something fell to the ground. He picked it up. It was a large bronze key about three inches in length. Cupping it in his hand so that Runnells might not inadvertently see it, he stared at it speculatively14 for a moment, then dropped it into his pocket.
This was interesting, decidedly interesting—and suggestive! His flashlight became more inquisitive15 in respect of the immediate16 surroundings. Those footprints, for instance, in the half mud and sand, deep, irregular, which, leading up from the edge of the water some four or five yards away, ended where Paul Cremarre now lay—and another series of footprints, a little to the right, quite regular, which, though they also started from the water's edge, lost themselves in the direction of the beach in front of the boathouse.
Captain Francis Newcombe worked swiftly now. He searched through the dead man's pockets, transferring the contents, without stopping to examine them, to his own pockets—and then abruptly17 and without ceremony swung upon Runnells.
"We'll finish this up in the boathouse!" he snapped.
Runnells' reply was inarticulate.
Captain Francis Newcombe, with his revolver again at the small of Runnells' back, drove the man before him—out from under the verandah, up one of the ramp-like bridges and into the little lounge room of the boathouse. Here, he switched on the light—and with a sudden, savage18 grip around Runnells' throat, flung the man sprawling19 into one of the big easy chairs.
"Now, my man," he said, "we'll have our little settlement, since Paul has already had his! I congratulate you—both! And perhaps you may have a very early opportunity of letting him know that I did not overlook him in my felicitations. Very neat—very clever of you two to play the game like this! I must confess that I did not think of Paul Cremarre in connection with what has been going on. I fancy that the very fact of you being here—the three divided, as it were—must have helped to act as a sort of mental blanket upon me in that respect. And even you I was forced to eliminate until to-night because I could not arrive at any logical reason that would explain your motive—for if I left the island here you would leave too. The combination, however, would be very effective! Paul Cremarre would be left behind with a free hand, eh?" Captain Francis Newcombe's voice rasped suddenly. "Now, then, you cur, what happened under the boathouse here to-night? What killed Paul?"
Runnells' face was a pasty white. He shrank back into the farthest recesses21 of the chair, and licked nervously22 at his lips. He tried twice to speak—ineffectually. His eyes seemed fascinated, not by the revolver that Captain Francis Newcombe had transferred to his left hand, but by Captain Francis Newcombe's right hand that came creeping now with menacing, half-curled fingers toward his throat.
"I—I don't know." Runnells forced a shaken whisper. "So help me, Gawd, I don't! I don't know who killed him."
"I didn't say who; I said what!" Captain Francis Newcombe's hand crept still closer to Runnells' throat. "Don't try any of that kind of game—you're not brainy enough! It wasn't anything human that killed Paul Cremarre."
"No," mumbled25 Runnells, "no; it wasn't anything human. Oh, my Gawd, the look of it! It—it made me sick. Those—those round red things on his face—and the eyes—the eyes—I—I ain't afraid of a dead man, but—but I was afraid in there."
"Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly, "at bottom you are a stinking26 coward, a spineless thing—you always were. But you've never really known fear—not yet! I'm going to teach you what fear is!"
"No!" Runnells screamed out, and pawed at the other's hand that was now tight around his throat. "I'm telling the truth. I swear to Gawd I am! I don't know what happened. I didn't know Paul was here. I never saw him since we left London."
"Don't lie!" Captain Francis Newcombe coolly and viciously twisted at the flesh in which his fingers were enmeshed. "I'm going to have the whole story now—or else you'll follow Paul Cremarre. You've seen enough in the last three years to know that I never make an idle threat. It will be quite simple. You will disappear. I, myself, will be the most solicitous27 of all about your disappearance28. It would never be attributed to me. Is it quite plain, Runnells? You deserve it, anyway! Perhaps it's a waste of time to do anything but get rid of you now before daylight. I'd rather like to do it, Runnells. It's rather bad policy to give a man a chance to stab you a second time in the back."
The man was almost in a state of collapse29. Captain Francis Newcombe loosened his hold, and, standing30 back a little and toying with caressing31 fingers at his revolver's mechanism32, surveyed the other with eyes that, in meditation33 now, were utterly34 callous35.
"I—I know you'd do it." Runnells, gasping36 for his breath, blurted37 out his words wildly. "I know it wouldn't do me any good to lie—but I ain't lying. Can't you believe me? I wasn't in it at all. I never knew Paul was on the island until just now."
"Go on!" encouraged Captain Francis Newcombe ironically. "So it wasn't you who telephoned Polly from the boathouse here a little while ago?"
Runnells' eyes widened.
"Me? No!" he cried out vehemently38. "I haven't been near here."
Captain Francis Newcombe frowned. He knew Runnells and Runnells' calibre intimately and well. The man's surprise was genuine. Another angle! It was possible, of course, that Paul Cremarre had been playing a lone39 hand; but against that was Runnells' own actions to-night. Well, as it stood now, it was a very simple matter to put Runnells' sincerity40, or insincerity, to the proof.
"No, of course not!" he observed caustically41. "I didn't expect you to admit it. Why don't you tell me you spent the evening playing solitaire, then went to bed and slept like a child until I rapped on your door?"
"Because I'm only telling you the truth," he said, with frantic43 insistence44 in his voice. "And that wouldn't be the truth. I'll tell you everything—everything. You can see for yourself it's Gawd's fact. I wasn't asleep when you knocked. I had been out of my room, but I hadn't been out of the house; and I hadn't been in bed more than ten minutes when I heard you at the door."
"You rather surprise me, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe coolly. "Not at what you say, for I was standing in the hall when you entered your room—but that for once you are guilty of an honest statement. Go on! What were you doing around the house?"
"I got to go back to before we left London, if I'm going to make a clean breast of it," he said, searching Captain Francis Newcombe's face anxiously. "I—I knew then about the money out here. There was a letter under your pillow the day you got back from Cloverley's, and when I propped47 you up in bed for your lunch I—I took it, and read it while I was feeding you your—" His words were blotted48 out in a sudden cry of fear. He was staring into a revolver muzzle49 thrust close to his face, and behind the revolver were a pair of eyes that burned like living coals. "For Gawd's sake," he shrieked50 out, "captain—don't!"
Captain Francis Newcombe dropped the revolver to his side again.
"You are quite right, Runnells," he said whimsically. "It would be inexcusable to stem any tide of veracity51 flowing from you. Well?"
"I got to make you believe I'm telling the truth," choked Runnells, "and—and I know now I have. I didn't say anything to Paul about it—I was keeping it to myself. And Paul didn't say anything to me. I didn't know he knew about it, and I don't know now how he found out—but I suppose he must have somehow, for I suppose that's what brought him here. As for me, what I read in that letter didn't make any difference after all, because the minute I got here I knew what everybody else knew—that the dippy old bird had got half a million dollars hidden away somewhere." He hesitated a moment, drawing the back of his hand several times to and fro across his lips. "Well, that's what I was doing to-night, and that's what I was doing last night. I was searching the house trying to find out where he'd hidden the money. But I didn't find it."
"No," said Captain Francis Newcombe grimly; "I'm quite sure you didn't. But if you had, Runnells—what then?"
"I—I'm not sure." Runnells licked at his lips again. "I know what you mean. It—it would have depended on you. You told me before we left London that on account of the girl being your ward23 we weren't to do anything slippery in America, and if I'd made sure of that and was sure you wouldn't come in on the job, then I'd have copped the swag and got away with it if I could; but if you would have come in, then I'd have told you where it was."
"Anything more?" inquired Captain Francis Newcombe laconically52.
Runnells shook his head.
"Even on your own say-so," he said deliberately55 at last, "you were prepared to double-cross me. Once I let a man toss a coin to see whether I shot him or not—for less than that. But you are not even entitled to that much chance—except for the fact that perhaps after to-night you'll be less likely to stick your filthy56 hands into my affairs. But even that is not what is outweighing57 my inclination58 to have done with you here and now. The fact is that, though I regret to admit it, you are, for the moment at least, more valuable alive."
Runnells straightened up a little in his chair. He swept his hand over a wet brow.
"Or turn at the first chance like the dog who has been whipped by his master," observed Captain Francis Newcombe indifferently. "Very good, Runnells! I never prolong discussions. The matter is ended—unless you are unfortunate enough to cause the subject to be reopened at some future date! It is near daylight—and before daylight Paul Cremarre, what is left of him, must be disposed of. If the man is found here, the victim of a violent death, it means an inquest, the influx61 of authorities, the possible discovery of Cremarre's identity—and ours!"
"We could tie something heavy on him," said Runnells thickly, "and drop him in the water."
"We could—but we won't," said Captain Francis Newcombe curtly62. "One never feels at ease with bodies disposed of in that fashion—they have been known to come to the surface. It might be the easiest way, but it's not the safest. I think you've heard me say before, Runnells, that chance is the playground of fools. Besides, our close and intimate friendship with Paul demands a little more reverent63 and circumspect64 consideration at our hands—what? Paul shall have a decent burial. We'll dig a hole for him back there among the trees." He thrust his hand suddenly into his pocket, brought out his flashlight, and tossed it into Runnells' lap. "Go up to the house and get a spade, a couple of them if you can. There ought to be plenty somewhere in the out-houses at the back. And hurry!"
"Yes—right!" Runnells stammered65, as he rose to his feet and stood hesitant as though trying to say something more.
"I said hurry—damn you!" snarled Captain Francis Newcombe.
"Yes—right!" said Runnells mechanically again—and stumbled, half running, across the room and out of the door.
Captain Francis Newcombe flung himself into the chair Runnells had vacated. His mind was on Paul Cremarre now. What was it that had caused the man's death? As Runnells had said, it was a sickening sight. Well, no matter! The mode or cause of death was an incident, wasn't it? Paul Cremarre found here on the island, whether dead or alive, was what mattered—it meant that the menace, that hellish nightmare of the "unknown," that had been hanging over him, Shadow Varne, was gone now—that the way was clear ahead—a fortune here—America once more an "open sesame"—riches, luxury, all he had builded for, his again to take at his leisure without fear now of any interference from any source. And yet he seemed to hate the man the more because he was dead. Cremarre had done what no other man had ever done to Shadow Varne—those black hours—last night—the night before.
His hands clenched fiercely. He knew a sudden, unbridled rush of anger directed against the agency, be it what it might, that had caused Paul Cremarre's death—that had forever removed the man beyond his reach, and had robbed him of a right that alone was his to settle with the man. He had owed the other a debt that he could never now repay—the sort of debt that Shadow Varne, until now, had never failed to pay. It was all clear enough now. Paul Cremarre, if not from the moment he had read Polly's letter that morning in London, had finally at any rate yielded to the temptation that the opportunity of securing so great a sum of money had dangled66 before his eyes. Cremarre, like Runnells, had very possibly, and perhaps not unwarrantably, been sceptical about his, Captain Francis Newcombe's, statement that the money here was to be held inviolable; but whether he had or not made very little difference in the last analysis, for, either way, it would be obvious to Paul Cremarre that he would get none of the money unless he got it through his own secret endeavours, since, even if he, Captain Francis Newcombe, were after it for himself, Cremarre would realise that he was not to share in the spoils.
It was quite plain! It was Paul Cremarre who had fired that shot through the cabin window in the storm on the liner that night in order to possess for himself a free hand on the island here. The man, in disguise of course, had sailed on the same ship—because he would not have dared to have left London before he, Newcombe, left, for fear of arousing suspicions, since he was known to be acquainted with the contents of the letter; and he would not have dared risk a later vessel67 for fear of arriving too late and only to find the money gone should he, Newcombe, prove to be after it for himself. It was Paul Cremarre here on the island who had on those three occasions, ending with to-night, sought through the medium of fear, no, more than that, through an appeal to the impulse for self-preservation, to drive him, Newcombe, away—and leave Paul Cremarre in sole possession of the field. And it was quite plain now, too, why the man had not, here on the island, attempted murder again as he had done on the liner. It was not that the chances of discovery were less on board the ship; but that here a murder would cause an invasion of the island by police and detectives which would automatically hamper68 Cremarre in his efforts to find the money, if, indeed, it would not force him to leave the island entirely in order to make his own escape.
Captain Francis Newcombe's hand was groping tentatively in his pocket now. It was not at all unnatural69 that the thought of Paul Cremarre had not entered his head. To begin with, he had trusted the hound; and, again, he had sailed immediately on the first ship after leaving the man in London. But now! Yes, that was where the crux70 of the whole thing lay—the time spent on that yachting trip of Locke's down the coast. Paul Cremarre had probably been on the island for several days before the Talofa arrived, and—
His hand came out of his pocket. In its palm lay the bronze key. He stared at it thoughtfully. No, Paul Cremarre had not succeeded in getting the madman's money prior to to-night, for in that case old Marlin would have discovered his loss and raised a wild fuss; and, besides, if successful, Cremarre would have left the island without loss of time. Nor had Cremarre been quite successful to-night, for the money was not on his person; but he had been—what? Captain Francis Newcombe stared for another long minute at the bronze key, then jumping suddenly up from the chair, he crossed over to the table and began to divest71 his pockets of the articles he had taken from Paul Cremarre. He tumbled them out on the table: A roll of bills; a passport—made out under an assumed name—to one André Belisle; a few papers such as railroad folders72, a small map of the Florida Keys, some descriptive matter pertaining73 thereto, and among these a little book.
Captain Francis Newcombe snatched up the book—and suddenly he began to laugh, a strange laugh, hoarse59 with elation, a laugh that even found expression in the quick, triumphant74 glitter in his eyes. Several times in the short period during which he had been here on the island he had seen this little book, and more than once he had endeavoured unostentatiously to obtain a closer look at it, but without success. It was the old madman's little book—the little buff-coloured, paper-covered little book that the old fool, he had noticed, would frequently pull out of his pocket and consult for no reason apparently75 other than that it had become a habit with him. It was a common book, a very common book—an innocent book. Its title was on the cover. It was a book of tide tables.
And again and again now Captain Francis Newcombe laughed. The bronze key and the book of tide tables! The pieces of the puzzle aligned76 themselves of their own accord into a complete whole. An hour later every night! The old madman went out an hour later every night. So did the tide! Those footprints there under the boathouse—not Paul Cremarre's, the other ones! The succession of nights during which the old maniac77 went out until the hour just before daybreak was reached—and then the period of inaction. At low water, like to-night, eh? Yes, yes! He did not go out when the tide was low too early in the evening or too late in the morning; in the former case for fear of being seen, in the latter because it would be full daylight before the tide would creep in to wash away the tell-tale footprints. Paul Cremarre's presence there—his footmarks leading away from the water to the spot where he had collapsed78 and died! Cremarre with a bronze key in his hand, and the old maniac's book of tide tables—Cremarre had made an attempt to get the money after the old man had been there, and something, God knew what, had done him down instead. It must have been subsequent to the old man's visit, for Marlin was now in his room—he, Captain Francis Newcombe, had listened at the fool's door when he had returned long after three o'clock from that trip to the old hut in the woods—and three o'clock was past the hour of low water, and old Marlin had appeared to be quietly asleep, which under no circumstances would he have been had he been conscious of the loss of his key and book. There were a dozen theories that would logically reconstruct the scene—but none of them mattered. It was the existing fact that mattered. Cremarre, hidden himself, might, and very probably had, watched the old maniac at work; afterwards, whether the old man had lost the key and book from the pocket of his dressing79 gown as it flapped around him and Cremarre had found them, or Paul Cremarre, than whom there was no craftier80 thief in Christendom, had succeeded in purloining81 them, again mattered not a whit20. What mattered was that there was only one place now where the old maniac's secret depository could be—only one. And he, Captain Francis Newcombe, now knew where that one place was.
And yet again he laughed—loud in his evil joy, vauntingly in his triumph. It was his now! There was no longer anything to mar1 his plans. Nemesis82 was dead! No haunting thing to strike any more out of the darkness and drive him back, with bared teeth, against the wall, to make of him little better than a cornered rat. Why shouldn't he laugh now—at man, or devil, or Heaven, or hell! He was master—as Shadow Varne had always been master. He tossed the bronze key up in the air and caught it again with deft83, yet savage grasp. The hiding place was found. There was only a keyhole to look for now. A keyhole ... a keyhole.... Mad mirth caught up the words and flung them in jocular song hither and thither84 within his brain. A keyhole ... a keyhole....
"You'd raise your cursed voice to bawl85 at Shadow Varne, would you, Paul Cremarre?" he cried. "Well, damn you—thanks!"
Just the turning of a key in a lock! But the water was too high now—the tide was coming in. A key wasn't any good to-night—the place wasn't locked only by a key, it was time-locked by the tide. He snatched up the little book and consulted it hurriedly. It would be low tide to-morrow morning at a quarter past three. Well, to-morrow morning, then, since he couldn't have a look at the place to-night. He could well afford the time now! And meanwhile with the key gone, the old maniac couldn't do anything—except raise an infernal row, and become even a little more maniacal86, if that were possible. Too bad! But then, the poor old man probably wouldn't live very long anyhow! And then, besides, quite apart from the tide to-night, there was Runnells, who—
He swept the articles from the table suddenly back into his pockets. Where was Runnells? What the devil was keeping the man? He should have been back by now!
Captain Francis Newcombe switched off the light, and, walking quickly from the room now, closed the door behind him. And now he frowned in impatient irritation87 as he made his way along the verandah of the boathouse and down to the shore. Confound Runnells, anyway! Where was he? It was already beginning to show colour in the east, and the darkness was giving way to a grey, shadowy half-light. In another quarter of an hour the dawn would have broken. There was no time to spare!
He stood for a moment staring toward the fringe of trees that hid the path to the house. There was still no sign of Runnells. With a quick, muttered execration88 at the man's tardiness89, he turned abruptly and began to make his way in under the boathouse. At the spot where Paul Cremarre's body lay the slope of the shore was very gentle, and the incoming tide would therefore cover the ground the more rapidly. He had forgotten that. Paul Cremarre had only been four or five yards away from what was then the water's edge when he had left him, and unless he wanted to find the body floating around now, he had better—
He halted short in his tracks, but close to the water now. His heart had stopped. What was that? Involuntarily now he staggered back a pace. It wasn't light enough to see distinctly; it was only light enough to see shadowy things, things that suddenly moved in the gloom before him, things that, from the water, waved sinuously91 in the air—like slimy, monstrous92, snake-like tentacles94—that reached out and crept and wriggled95 upon the shore itself. The place was alive with them, swarming96 with them. They were tentacles! They were feeling out, feeling out everywhere, and—God, were they feeling out for him! He sprang sharply backward as a light breath of air seemed to have fanned his cheek. He heard a faint pat upon the earth as of something soft striking there; he saw a slithering thing, like a reptile97 in shape and movement, swaying this way and that as though in search of something upon the spot where he had stood.
He felt his face blanch98. He drew back still farther. A dark blotch99 lay near the water's edge—that was Paul Cremarre's body. And now one of those sinuous90, creeping tentacles, a grey, viscous100, clutching arm, fell athwart the body—and the body seemed to move—slowly—jerkily as though it struggled itself to escape from some foul101 and loathsome102 touch—toward the water.
Captain Francis Newcombe gazed now, a fascination103 of horror seizing upon him. Two curious spots showed out there in the water. Not lights—they weren't lights—but they were in a sense luminous104. They seemed to stare, full of insatiable lust105, gibbous, protuberant106 from out of the midst of that waving, feeling, slithering forest of tentacled107 arms.
He swept his hand across his eyes. Was he mad? Was this some ugly fantasy that he was dreaming—and that in his sleep was making his blood run cold? Look! Look! Those two luminous spots were coming nearer and nearer—eyes, baleful, hungry—eyes, that's what they were! They were coming closer to the shore—to the body of Paul Cremarre. A dripping tentacle93, waving in the air, swayed forward, and dropped and curled and fastened around the body—that was the second one there.
It was too light now! The sight was horror—but the fascination of horror held him motionless. There was no head to the thing, just a monstrous, formless continuation of abhorrent108 bulk from which were thrust out those huge, repulsive109 tentacles—from which was thrust out another now to fasten itself, for purchase, upon one of the small, outer concrete piers110 that rose from the deeper water beyond.
And again the body of Paul Cremarre moved. And there was a sound. The gurgling of water.
It had a beak112 like a parrot's beak, and the mandibles opened now—wide apart—to uncover a cavernous mouth. And the eyes and the tentacles of the thing began to retreat from the shore.
The gurgle of water again.
A white shirt sleeve showed for an instant—and was gone.
Then in the shadowy light a placid116 surface, the looming117 central pier111 of the boathouse, the little piers, the roof above—the commonplace.
A voice spoke at his side—Runnells':
"Where's Paul Cremarre?"
Captain Francis Newcombe's handkerchief, with apparent nonchalance118, went to his face. It wiped away beads119 of sweat.
"I don't know what you'd call the thing," he said casually120. "The scientists seem to refer to the species under a variety of names—you may take your choice, Runnells, between poulpe, devil fish and octopus121. It's a bit of an unpleasant specimen122 whatever name you choose. It's gone now—and so has Paul Cremarre."
"An octopus!" Runnells stared through the dim light toward the water. "You mean it—it got Paul?"
"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket.
"Gawd!" said Runnells in a shaky whisper. "An octopus! I know what that is. The thing's got suckers that would tear the flesh off you. That's where those marks on Paul's face must have come from. He must have had a fight with it before we found him."
"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe, "he undoubtedly123 did. It's rather obvious now that he had just managed in a dying effort to break loose and reach the shore. And the brute124 was crafty125 enough to know, I fancy, and waited for the tide to come farther in to bag its prey126. Anyway, you won't need those spades you've got there now—and incidentally, Runnells, where the devil have you been all this time?"
Runnells was swabbing at his brow.
"It—it knocked me flat, that did," he said with a sudden, wild rush of words; "but it ain't any worse than what's happened up there. Hell's broke loose—just hell—that's what! The old bird's gone and done it. Shot himself, he has."
Captain Francis Newcombe's hand reached out and closed in a quick, tight grip on the other's shoulder.
"Come out of here!" he said abruptly. He led Runnells out beyond the overhang of the verandah, and in the better light stared into the man's face. "Now, then, what's this you say? Old Marlin's shot himself?"
"By accident," said Runnells, nodding his head excitedly; "leastways, that's what I suppose you'd call it."
"Dead?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe.
Runnells laughed nervously.
"You're bloody127 well right he's dead!" he said gruffly. "Dead as a herring! That's what the row's all about."
"Tell your story!" ordered Captain Francis Newcombe shortly.
"Well, when I went up there from here," said Runnells, "I saw the house all lit up, and the blacks all running around, and the whole place humming. And they spotted128 me, some of the servants did, and all began talking at once about the old bird having shot himself, and they seemed to take it for granted that I knew too—d'ye twig129?—that I'd been in the house, of course, and had got up and dressed, having heard the shots. The only play I had was to keep my mouth shut and let 'em think so—and listen to them. It seems, as near as they knew, that his nibs130 had been asleep, and suddenly wakes up and goes blind off his top, and runs upstairs with a revolver, and goes to Locke's room, and opens the door and begins shooting, and all the time he's screaming out at the top of his lungs, 'you're one of them, you're one of them; but I'll kill you before you open it!' Locke must have had his nerve with him. Anyway, he jumped out of bed and tried to get the revolver away from the old fool. By this time the whole house was up, and some of the black servants took a hand by trying to collar his nibs, but Marlin breaks away from them somehow, and runs for the stairs like a mad bull. He must have tripped going down, or knocked his arm, or something, anyway his revolver goes off and when they got to him he was at the bottom of the stairs with a hole in his head." Runnells paused for a moment, but, eliciting131 no comment, went on again: "Well, while I was getting all this information that I was supposed to know, Locke comes out on the verandah and spots me. 'I've just been to your room, Runnells,' he says. 'Do you know where Captain Newcombe is?' And I says, 'No, sir, I don't; leastways,' I says, 'I've been too excited to notice.' Then he says I'd better try and find you, and that gave me the first chance to get away and cop these spades. I sneaked132 around through the woods at the back of the house with them."
Captain Francis Newcombe lighted a cigarette.
"Right!" said Runnells.
"Now!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "And you haven't been able to find me."
"Right!" said Runnells again, and started off at a run.
Captain Francis Newcombe began to walk leisurely134 across the beach toward the path leading to the house. He puffed135 leisurely and with immense content at his cigarette. In the light of certain knowledge possessed136 by himself alone, the whole thing was as clear as daylight. The old maniac had wakened up, and in some way had discovered for the first time that his key and book were gone—that had set him off. It was rather rough on Locke to have been selected as the thief! But there was no accounting137 for what a lunatic would do!
He was chuckling138 to himself now. An explanation of his absence from the house at this hour? It was too simple! Polly would substantiate139 it. Polly's scruples140 about keeping silent were now useless—to him! He had thought the old madman must have telephoned from the boathouse. He had got up and dressed, and gone down to see—and, of course, had seen nothing!
He flicked141 his cigarette away. And now he laughed—laughed with the same evil joy, the same savage triumph, but magnified a hundredfold now, with which he had laughed a little while ago in the boathouse back there. Only the laughter was silent now—it was his soul that rocked with mirth. The gods were very good! The black of the night had brought a dawn of incomparable radiance! That was poetic142! Ha, ha! Well, why not poetry? He was in exquisite143 humour. It was like wine in his head—that, too, was poetry, wasn't it?—somebody had said it was—or something like it. Nor God, nor man, nor the devil could stay him now! He had only to be circumspect in the house of death—and help himself. Almost poetry again! Excellent! The old fool dead! Even the trouble and annoyance144 of staging an accident was now removed. The old fool dead—with his secret. They would hunt a long time—and it would forever be a secret.
Except to Shadow Varne!
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1
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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2
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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3
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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4
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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5
imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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6
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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7
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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8
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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9
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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10
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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12
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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13
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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15
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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16
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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17
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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18
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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19
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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20
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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21
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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22
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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23
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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24
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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25
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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27
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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28
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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29
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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30
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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31
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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32
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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33
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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34
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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35
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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36
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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37
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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39
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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40
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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41
caustically
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| adv.刻薄地；挖苦地；尖刻地；讥刺地 | |
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42
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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43
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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44
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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45
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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46
massaging
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| 按摩，推拿( massage的现在分词 ) | |
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47
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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49
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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50
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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52
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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53
numbly
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| adv.失去知觉，麻木 | |
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54
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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56
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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57
outweighing
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的现在分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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58
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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59
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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60
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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61
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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62
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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63
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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64
circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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65
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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67
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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68
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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69
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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70
crux
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| adj.十字形；难事，关键，最重要点 | |
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71
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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72
folders
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| n.文件夹( folder的名词复数 )；纸夹；（某些计算机系统中的）文件夹；页面叠 | |
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73
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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74
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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75
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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76
aligned
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| adj.对齐的，均衡的 | |
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77
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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78
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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79
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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80
craftier
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| 狡猾的，狡诈的( crafty的比较级 ) | |
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81
purloining
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| v.偷窃( purloin的现在分词 ) | |
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82
nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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83
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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84
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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85
bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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86
maniacal
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| adj.发疯的 | |
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87
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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88
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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89
tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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90
sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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91
sinuously
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| 弯曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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92
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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93
tentacle
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| n.触角，触须，触手 | |
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94
tentacles
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| n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 )；触角；触须；触毛 | |
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95
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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96
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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97
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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98
blanch
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| v.漂白；使变白；使(植物)不见日光而变白 | |
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99
blotch
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| n.大斑点；红斑点；v.使沾上污渍，弄脏 | |
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100
viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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101
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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102
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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103
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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104
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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105
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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106
protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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107
tentacled
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| 有触角[触手]的 | |
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108
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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109
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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110
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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111
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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112
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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113
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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114
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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115
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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116
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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117
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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118
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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octopus
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| n.章鱼 | |
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122
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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126
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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130
nibs
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| 上司，大人物； 钢笔尖，鹅毛管笔笔尖( nib的名词复数 )； 可可豆的碎粒； 小瑕疵 | |
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131
eliciting
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| n. 诱发, 引出 动词elicit的现在分词形式 | |
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132
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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133
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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139
substantiate
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| v.证实；证明...有根据 | |
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140
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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141
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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