It had a beak like a parrot's beak, and the mandibles opened now—wide apart—to uncover a cavernous mouth. And the eyes and the tentacles of the thing began to retreat from the shore.
The gurgle of water again.
A white shirt sleeve showed for an instant—and was gone.
A splashing. A commotion. A swirl. An eddy.
Then in the shadowy light a placid surface, the looming central pier of the boathouse, the little piers, the roof above—the commonplace.
A voice spoke at his side—Runnells':
"Where's Paul Cremarre?"
Captain Francis Newcombe's handkerchief, with apparent nonchalance, went to his face. It wiped away beads of sweat.
"I don't know what you'd call the thing," he said casually. "The scientists seem to refer to the species under a variety of names—you may take your choice, Runnells, between poulpe, devil fish and octopus. It's a bit of an unpleasant specimen whatever name you choose. It's gone now—and so has Paul Cremarre."
"An octopus!" Runnells stared through the dim light toward the water. "You mean it—it got Paul?"