“Hah!” ejaculated the man again, as he stood now watching the lights, one of which kept growing more distant, while the hails somehow seemed to be more faint and wild, and at last to resemble the despairing cries of drowning men.
“Listen,” whispered the detective in an awe-stricken tone, as he strove to pierce the darkness out to sea.
“It was Master Leslie, that,” said the second policeman; “I know his hail.”
Just then there was a wild hysterical fit of sobbing, and George Vine rose slowly from his knees, and staggered towards the group.
“Luke!” he cried, in a half-stunned, helpless way, “Luke you know—Where are you? Luke!”
“Here, George,” said Uncle Luke sadly, for he had knelt down in the place his brother had occupied the moment before.
“You know the currents. Will they—Will he—”
He faltered and paused, waiting his brother’s reply, and the three officers of the law shuddered, as, after a few minutes’ silence, broken only by a groan from the kneeling man, George Vine cried in a piteous voice that sounded wild and thrilling in the solemn darkness of the night:
“God help me! Oh, my son, my son!”
“Quick, mind! Good heavens, sir! Another step and—”