1
Mr. Satterthwaite sat on the terrace of “Crow’s Nest” and watched his host, Sir Charles Cartwright, climbing up the path from the sea. Crow’s Nest was a modern bungalow¹ of the better type. It had no half timbering, no gables, no excrescences dear to a third-class builder’s heart. It was a plain white solid building - deceptive² as to size, since it was a good deal bigger than it looked. It owed its name to its position, high up, overlooking the harbour of Loomouth. Indeed from one corner of the terrace, protected by a strong balustrade, there was a sheer drop to the sea below. By road Crow’s Nest was a mile from the town. The road ran inland and then zigzagged³ high up above the sea. On foot it was accessible in seven minutes by the steep fisherman’s path that Sir Charles Cartwright was ascending⁴ at this minute.
Sir Charles was a well-built, sunburnt man of middle age. He wore old grey flannel⁵ trousers and a white sweater. He had a slight rolling gait, and carried his hands half closed as he walked. Nine people out of ten would say, “Retired⁶ Naval⁷ man - can’t mistake the type.” The tenth, and more discerning, would have hesitated, puzzled by something indefinable that did not ring true. And then perhaps a picture would rise, unsought, the deck of a ship - but not a real ship - a ship curtailed⁸ by hanging curtains of thick rich material - a man, Charles Cartwright, standing⁹ on that deck, light that was not sunlight streaming down on him, the hands half clenched¹⁰, the easy gait and a voice - the easy pleasant voice of an English sailor and gentleman, a great deal magnified in tone.

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