“Do as I ask,” Furley insisted.  “I have a reason.”

Julian rose to his feet, walked cautiously to the edge of the dyke, turned on his light, and looked downwards.  One part of the bridge remained; the other was caught in the weeds, a few yards down, and the single plank which formed its foundation was sawn through, clean and straight.  He gazed at it for a moment in astonishment.  Then he turned back towards the cottage, to receive another shock.  About forty yards up the lane, drawn in close to a straggling hedge, was a small motor-car, revealed to him by a careless swing of his torch.  He turned sharply towards it, keeping his torch as much concealed as possible.  It was empty—­a small coupe of pearl-grey—­a powerful two-seater, with deep, cushioned seats and luxuriously fitted body.  He flashed his torch on to the maker’s name and returned thoughtfully to his friend.

“Miles,” he confessed, as he entered the sitting room, “there are some things I will never make fun of again.  Have you a personal enemy here?”

“Not one,” replied Furley.  “The soldiers, who are all decent fellows, the old farmer at the back, and your father and mother are the only people with whom I have the slightest acquaintance in these parts.”

“The bridge has been deliberately sawn through,” Julian announced gravely.

Furley nodded.  He seemed prepared for the news.

“There is something doing in this section, then,” he muttered.  “Julian, will you take my job on?”

“Like a bird,” was the prompt response.  “Tell me exactly what to do?”

Furley sat up, still nursing his leg.

“Put on your sea boots, and your oilskins over your clothes,” he directed.  “You will want your own stick, so take that revolver and an electric torch.  You can’t get across the remains of the bridge, but about fifty yards down to the left, as you leave the door, the water’s only about a foot deep.  Walk through it, scramble up the other side, and come back again along the edge of the dyke until you come to the place where one lands from the broken bridge.  Is that clear?”

“Entirely.”

“After that, you go perfectly straight along a sort of cart track until you come to a gate.  When you have passed through it, you must climb a bank on your lefthand side and walk along the top.  It’s a beastly path, and there are dykes on either side of you.”

“Pooh!” Julian exclaimed.  “You forget that I am a native of this part of the world.”

“You come to a sort of stile at the end of about three hundred yards,” Furley continued.  “You get over that, and the bank breaks up into two.  You keep to the left, and it leads you right down into the marsh.  Turn seaward.  It will be a nasty scramble, but there will only be about fifty yards of it.  Then you get to a bit of rough ground—­a bank of grass-grown sand.  Below that there is the shingle and the sea.  That is where you take up your post.”