“Don’t bother about that tonight, Gow,” I said.  “Just drag her above high-water mark.  It’s quite possible I may be using her in the morning.”

Having thus provided for my retreat in the case of an emergency, I returned to the hut by the usual route along the sea-front.  I took the precaution of putting up my head and inspecting the place carefully before climbing over the sea-wall, but I might as well have saved myself the trouble.  The marsh was quite deserted, and when I reached the hut I found my little notice still pinned to the door, and no trace of any one having paid me a visit in my absence.

I remained in the same state of splendid isolation for the rest of the evening.  There was no difficulty about keeping watch, for as soon as the sun went down a large obliging moon appeared in the sky, lighting up the marsh and the Tilbury road almost as clearly as if it were day-time.  I could have seen a rabbit a hundred yards off, let alone anything as big and obvious as a Scotland Yard detective.

At about one in the morning I turned in for a couple of hours’ rest.  I felt that if Sonia had gone straight to the authorities they would have acted before this, while if she was sleeping on her wrath there was no reason I shouldn’t do the same.  I had given up any expectation of McMurtrie until the next morning.

I woke at half-past three, and resumed my vigil in the pure cool twilight of early dawn.  I watched the sun rise over the river, and gradually climb up into a sky of pale blue and lemon that gave promise of another radiantly fine day.  There was scarcely a breath of wind stirring, and everything was so deliciously quiet and peaceful that it almost seemed as if the events of the last three years were merely the memory of some particularly vivid nightmare.

“Almost,” I say, for as a matter of fact I was never for a moment under any such pleasant delusion.  If I had been, I should have had an early awakening, for at eight o’clock, just as I was thinking of routing out something in the nature of breakfast, I saw a little black dot advancing along the Tilbury road, which soon resolved itself into the figure of my faithful Charles.

He struck off across the marsh and came up to the hut, where I was standing at the door waiting for him.

“Two telegrams and a letter for you, sir,” he said, producing them from his bag.  “They came this morning, sir.”

With an assumption of leisurely indifference that I was very far from feeling, I took them out of his hand.  The letter was addressed in McMurtrie’s writing, but I put it aside for a moment in favour of the two wires.  The first was from Joyce.

“Saw L. late yesterday evening.  He will act today.  Agrees with my suggestion about the Betty if necessary.  J.”

I thrust it into my pocket and opened the other.

“A copper come last nite and ask for you.  He see Misses O.”