He was bitterly cold: his limbs were like lead. An effort to rise was a dismal failure. He tried to shout, but no sound came from his parched lips. While he had lain unconscious there must have been a short spell of wind, for he found that he was covered with dried wrack and seaweed.
"It must be close on daybreak," he thought. "I'll have to stick it a little longer."
He made an attempt to look at his wristlet watch. The dial was no longer luminous, while an ominous silence had taken the place of an erstwhile healthy tick. A prolonged submergence had ruined the delicate mechanism for all time.
As he lay, too benumbed to move, he became aware that a boat had grounded on the beach within a few yards of his involuntary resting-place. The little craft must have come in very silently, for until the men's boots grated on the shingle he was unaware of their presence.
Again he tried to shout, but without result. Then, even as he tried to raise himself, he noticed that with one exception the men wore unfamiliar uniforms. They were talking softly, with an unmistakable guttural Teutonic accent.
"Huns," thought Pyecroft. "What's their little game? I've done them so far, and I'm hanged if I want them to put a half-nelson on me now. I'll lie doggo."
Which, considering his weak physical state, was an easy matter to do.
The Huns were evidently in a hurry, for after a few words with a greatcoated individual, they pushed off and rowed seaward, while the man they had left ashore lifted a portmanteau from the shingle and made his way towards the cliff with the air of one who is confident of his surroundings.
He passed so close to the prone figure lying partly covered by seaweed that for a brief instant Pyecroft expected the stranger to stumble against him.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated the astonished Pyecroft. "Where have I seen that fellow? By Jove—it's Fennelburt. Up to some dirty work: I wonder what?"