at that early hour, he would be free from all intrusion. So accustomed
to privacy was he that he had come to regard the place almost as his
own.

But as he topped the breakwater he came upon a sight that made him draw
back in disgust. A white mackintosh lay under a handful of stones upon
the shingly beach. He surveyed it suspiciously, with the air of a man
who fears that he is about to walk into a trap.

Then, his eyes travelling seaward, he spied a red cap bobbing up and
down in the spray of the dancing waves.

The impulse to turn and retrace his steps came to him, but some unknown
force restrained him. He remembered suddenly the current that had more
than once drawn him out of his course when bathing in those waters, and
the owner of the red cap was alone. He stood, uncertain, on the top of
the breakwater, and watched.

Two minutes later the very event he had pictured was taking place under
his eyes, and he was racing over the soft sand below the shingle at the
top of his speed. Two arms were beating wildly out in the shining
sparkle of water, as though they strove against the invisible bars of a
cage, and a voice--the high, frightened voice of a child--was calling
for help.

He flung off his coat as he ran, and dashed without an instant's pause
straight into the green foaming waves. The water swirled around him as
he struck out; he clove his way through it, all his energies
concentrated upon the bobbing red cap and struggling arms ahead of him.
Lifted on the crest of a rushing wave, he saw her, helpless as an infant