Ernie looked shy.
"That little turn-up with Alf in the road yesterday, sir," he said confidentially. "I was glad you was there." He came forward stealthily. "See, I know what you thought, sir. It's not Joe after her. It's Alf—always has been; from before we married. Joe's all right."
The Colonel stared grimly over the sea.
"I think you're wrong," he said.
"Then I know I'm not, sir," Ernie flashed.
The Colonel returned to his watch.
That night he did not go to bed. Instead he sat up in his pyjamas in the corner-room that looked out over the sea, and on to Beau-nez. If we went in the news would be flashed at once to the coastguard on the Head; and the petty officer on duty up there had promised to signal it down to the house in the coombe beneath.
The Colonel watched and waited.
The window was open. It was a still and brilliant night. He could hear the fall, and swish, and drone of the sea, rhythmical and recurrent, at the foot of the cliff. From the crest of the hill behind the house came the occasional tinkle of the canister-bell of some old wether of the flock.
Then the silence was disturbed by a growing tumult in the darkness.