What followed was the work of moments. Harry ran on till the rugged nature of the point compelled him to walk, then step cautiously from rock to rock. The harbour was on one side, the tide rushing in on the other; before him the end of the point, with its deep water and eddying currents, which no swimmer could stem, and behind him the London officer with the local police close up.
There was a boat, too, in the harbour, and the fugitive had heard the whistle and cries. He saw the light of the lugger out ahead, and to him, in his mad horror of capture, they meant enemies—enemies on every hand.
And so he reached the extreme point, where, peering wildly about, like some hunted creature seeking a way of escape, he turned at bay.
“There, sir, the game’s up,” cried the officer. “You’ve made a good fight of it, so now give in.”
“Keep back!” roared Harry hoarsely. And he stooped and felt about for a loose piece of rock where every scrap had been washed away.
“Will you give in?” cried the officer.
“Keep back!” cried Harry again, in a tone so fierce that for a moment the officer paused.
There was another whistle from across the harbour, a shout and a hail out of the darkness, but nothing save the dim lantern light could be seen.
“Now then, you two,” said the officer decidedly, “back me up.”
There was a faint click as he drew something from his pocket and without hesitation stepped boldly over the few feet which separated him from Harry Vine.