It was a curious mental state; rambling, seemingly incoherent, yet quite purposeful: the attention oscillating between the great general idea and its various component details. He was like a painter roughing out the preliminary sketch of a picture; at first carelessly smearing in the general effect, then pausing from time to time to sharpen an edge, to touch in a crisp light, to define the shape of a shadow, but never losing sight of the central motive. And as in the sketch definable shapes begin to grow out of the formless expanse and a vague suggestion crystallizes into an intelligible composition; so in Varney’s mind a process of gradual integration turned a vague and general idea into a clear picture, sharp, vivid, complete.
When Varney had thus brought his mental picture, so to speak, to a finish, its completeness surprised him. It was so simple, so secure. He had actually planned out the scheme of a murder; and behold! there was nothing in it. Any one could have done it and no one could have been any the wiser. Here he found himself wondering whether many murders passed undetected. They well might if murders were as easy and as safe as this. A dangerous reflection for an injured and angry man. And at this critical point his meditations were broken in on by Purcell, continuing the conversation as if there had been no pause.
“So you can take it from me, Varney, that I expect you to stick to your bargain. I paid down my money and I’m going to have my pound of flesh.”
“You won’t agree to any sort of compromise?”
“No. There are six thousand pounds owing. If you’ve got the money you can hand it over. If you haven’t, you’ll have to go on the lay and get it. That’s all I’ve got to say. So now you know.”
It was a brutal thing to say and it was brutally said. But more than that, it was inopportune—or opportune, as you will. For it came as a sort of infernal doxology to the devil’s anthem that had been, all unknown, ringing in Varney’s soul.
Purcell had spoken without looking round. That was his unpleasant habit. Had he looked at his companion, he might have been startled. A change in Varney’s face might have given him pause: a warm flush, a sparkle of the eye, a look of elation, of settled purpose, deadly, inexorable—the look of a man who has made a fateful resolution. But he never looked; and the warning of the uplifted axe passed him by.
It was so simple, so secure! That was the burden of the song that echoed in Varney’s brain. So safe! And there abroad were the watchful money-changers waiting for the clever forger to come once too often. There were the detectives lurking in ambush for him. No safety there! Rather the certainty of swift disaster, with the sequel of judge and jury, the clang of an iron door, and thereafter the dreary prison eating up the years of his life.
He glanced over the sea. They had opened the south coast now and he could see, afar off, a fleet of black-sailed luggers heading east. They wouldn’t be in his way. Nor would the big four-master that was creeping away to the west, for she was hull down already; and other ships there were none. There was one hindrance though. Dead ahead, the Wolf Rock lighthouse rose from the blue water, its red-and-white-ringed tower looking like some gaudily painted toy. The keepers of lonely lighthouses have a natural habit of watching the passing shipping through their glasses; and it was possible that one of their telescopes might be pointed at the yacht at this very moment. That was a complication.
Suddenly there came down the wind a sharp report like the firing of a gun quickly followed by a second. Both men recognized the duplicate report and both looked round. It was the explosive signal from the Longships lighthouse, but when they looked there was no lighthouse to be seen; and the dark blue heaving water faded away at the foot of an advancing wall of vapour.