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.
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