“I’ve been worrying, too,” Rand admitted. “Do you suppose anything has gone wrong, Whitehall?”
The constable wagged his head.
“Couldn’t say. Personally, I think they’ll be in before morning.”
“Rather difficult to make a landing in the dark, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t know about that.”
“I’m afraid it would,” the corporal answered his own question. “Beastly dark night. Like the inside of a pocket. You don’t suppose they’ve been driven off their course or have lost their way?”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Whitehall. “You’re as fidgety as the chief himself. Everything will be all right, I’m sure. My advice to you is to hop into bed. This sort of thing isn’t good for you.”
For a long time after the two friends separated, Rand rolled and tossed in his bed, obsessed by that queer and unexplainable premonition. He fell into a sleep which was fitful and broken. Through his dreams ran a thread of horror. He woke repeatedly. Finally, he threw back the covers, rose and lit the oil lamp which stood on a table near the head of his bed, and once more essayed to read. Impatiently, he threw the book from him, darted to his feet and commenced pacing back and forth, now and again pausing to pull aside the curtain and look out.
Daylight found him shaved, fully dressed, waiting for the stir of life about the barracks. The rattle of a granite plate in the kitchen at the back came as a signal for his release from the trying ordeal of the night. He pulled on his short fur coat and walked outside, wandering listlessly away in the direction of the stables and dog compound. To his surprise, he perceived that another person was already abroad. Approaching closer, his astonishment increased. Inspector Cameron!—a somewhat ludicrous figure that morning: Head bent, jaws clamped over a cigar, arms behind his back. He shambled to within a few feet of Rand before he looked up.
“Well?”