expressive, suggestive, and desolate, a symphony in grey and black-
-a Whistler. But the next thing said by the voice behind me made
me turn round. It growled out contempt for all associated notions
of roaring seas with concise energy, then went on -

"I--no such foolishness--looking at the rocks out there--more
likely call to mind an office--I used to look in sometimes at one
time--office in London--one of them small streets behind Cannon
Street Station. . . "

He was very deliberate; not jerky, only fragmentary; at times
profane.

"That's a rather remote connection," I observed, approaching him.

"Connection? To Hades with your connections. It was an accident."

"Still," I said, "an accident has its backward and forward
connections, which, if they could be set forth--"

Without moving he seemed to lend an attentive ear.

"Aye! Set forth. That's perhaps what you could do. Couldn't you
now? There's no sea life in this connection. But you can put it
in out of your head--if you like."

"Yes. I could, if necessary," I said. "Sometimes it pays to put
in a lot out of one's head, and sometimes it doesn't. I mean that
the story isn't worth it. Everything's in that."