"Ahoy!" he replied, when the last echo of the summons had died out.
He could see no boat. He could discover no human being. And—it was a man's voice that had hailed him.
For some moments a profound silence prevailed. Even the gulls ceased their mournful cries at the intrusion of a human voice upon their solitude.
Ruxton searched in every direction. Was this another surprise of this extraordinarily mysterious place? Was this——? Quite suddenly his gaze became riveted upon a spit of low, weed-covered rock, stretching out into the calm water like a breakwater. There was a sound of clambering feet, and as his acute hearing caught it, a sort of instinct thrust his hand into his coat pocket where an automatic pistol lay. Then he laughed at himself and withdrew his hand sharply. The figure of a man scrambled up on to the breakwater.
They stood eyeing each other for several thoughtful moments. Then without attempting to draw nearer the stranger called to him.
"Mr. Farlow, sir. This way, if you please."
Without hesitation Ruxton crossed over to him and scrambled on to the rocks.
"You are from——?" he demanded.
The question was put sharply, but without suspicion.
"The lady's waiting for you out there," replied the man simply. "We haven't much time, sir. You can't come in here on a rising tide, and you can't get out of it either. It's hell's own place for small craft, or any craft for that matter on a rising tide." He threw an anxious glance at the water.