every report they could have heard and every observation they might have
made must incline them to the view that it was their duty to get in touch
with me again. And now I proposed to take a solitary ramble along the
very shore where I had stumbled upon my oil-skinned friend, and give them
a chance of getting in touch.

It was an afternoon of sunshine and gleaming seas. At first the air was
redolent of clover, and then--as I drew near the shore--of seaware. On
this day of rest there was hardly any one to be seen about, so that a
quiet meeting by the beach could be simply arranged. Only a meeting
implies two, and though I walked right along the coast till I got
within a stone's throw of the Scollays' farm I remained as solitary as
when I started.

I turned back and slowly retraced my steps for a mile or so, my hopes
fading and my perplexity increasing.

"What ought I to have done that I haven't done?" I asked myself. "And
what have I done that I oughtn't to?"

I paused and sat down on the crisp sea turf with a rough stone wall to
landward, and below me the shelving rocks and the glassy ocean, and it
was then the idea struck me that I might do something to attract
attention to my presence. A thoughtful aunt had presented me with a
revolver when I got my commission, and as anything to do with hitting
things, from cricket balls to pheasants, has always amused me, I used to
carry it in my hip pocket regardless of chaff (one happily inspired wag
dubbed me "jolly Roger"). I took it out now, descended to the beach, set
up a stone as a mark, and proceeded to combine business with pleasure by
doing a little fancy shooting. The thing made just enough noise to