Kintyre followed the cliff. When he heard them talking again, he went with his back flat against it. Total silence would be his one chance, when he got into seeing range; they mightn't look his way.
They sat behind a log, a yard or two from the precipice. Clayton was huddled into a topcoat, hands in pockets, squatting wretchedly on a flat boulder. Silenio stood up, sentrylike, the gun in his hand.
Corinna sat facing Clayton. Her arms were free; a rope lashed her ankles. The long hair was heavy with dampness. She didn't seem to have been injured yet, except for that one short episode—
"It could only have been Kintyre," Clayton was saying. "And alone. Otherwise this beach would be solid with police."
"He may have the whole force on its way here," grumbled Silenio.
"That's possible. I think we had better get going. But remember, it's a single man. If you can nail him, we're safe."
Clayton stooped and began to untie Corinna. "I'm sorry about this," he said.
"Like hell you are!" she spat. Even now, Kintyre must grin at her rage, it was so much Corinna.
"As you like," shrugged Clayton.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, almost with wonder.