Harry almost ran into his arms, but with a cry of rage he doubled back and ran for the shore, where he might set pursuit at defiance by hiding in the rocks below the cliff. But another man sprang up in his way, and in his despair he ran off to his left again, right along the great pier, towards the point.
“We’ve got him now,” shouted a voice behind as Harry rushed out, just conscious of a shriek as he brushed by a group of figures, hardly seen in the darkness. He heard, too, some confused words in which “boat” and “escape” seemed to be mingled. But in his excitement he could only think of those behind, as there came the patter of his pursuers’ feet on the rough stones.
There was a shrill whistle from the other side of the harbour, followed by a hail, and the splash of oars in the darkness, while a low “ahoy!” came from off the point.
“Yes,” muttered the officer between his teeth, “you’re a nice party down here, but I’ve got my man.”
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.