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Chapter 12.

Death on the More

Our moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears.

Then my senses and my voice came back to me while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed

in an instant to be lifted from my soul.

That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world.

Homes I cried, homes!

Come out, said he, and please be careful with the revolver.

I stooped under the rude lintel, and there he sat, upon a stone outside, his grey eyes dancing

with amusement as they fell upon my astonished features.

He was thin and worn, but clear and alert, his keen face, bronzeed by the sun, and roughened

by the wind.

In his tweed suit and cloth cap he looked like any other tourist upon the more, and he had

contrived with that cat-like love of personal clenliness, which was one of his characteristics,

that his chin should be as smooth and as linen as perfect as if he were in Baker Street.

I never was more glad to see anyone in my life, said I, as I wrung him by the hand, or

more astonished, eh?

...