The Devil's Paw

by E. Phillips Oppenheim




CHAPTER I



The two men, sole occupants of the somewhat shabby cottage
parlour, lingered over their port, not so much with the air of
wine lovers, but rather as human beings and intimates, perfectly
content with their surroundings and company. Outside, the wind
was howling over the marshes, and occasional bursts of rain came
streaming against the window panes. Inside at any rate was
comfort, triumphing over varying conditions. The cloth upon the
plain deal table was of fine linen, the decanter and glasses were
beautifully cut; there were walnuts and, in a far Corner, cigars
of a well-known brand and cigarettes from a famous tobacconist.
Beyond that little oasis, however, were all the evidences of a
hired abode. A hole in the closely drawn curtains was fastened
together by a safety pin. The horsehair easy-chairs bore
disfiguring antimacassars, the photographs which adorned the walls
were grotesque but typical of village ideals, the carpet was
threadbare, the closed door secured by a latch instead of the
usual knob. One side of the room was littered with golf clubs, a
huge game bag and several boxes of cartridges. Two shotguns lay
upon the remains of a sofa. It scarcely needed the costume of