In the early grey of the next morning, Forster and Sutherland stood waiting at the place appointed, a solitary spot just above high water mark. Far as the eye could see nothing was visible but the cold sea on the one hand, and the long, flat stretch of a great marsh, blackened here and there by leafless tree, upon the other.
‘They are late,’ said Forster impatiently. ‘If he should take flight after all.’
‘I think he will come. But you are shaking like a leaf.’
‘Do you think I am afraid?’ asked Forster with a strange smile.
Sutherland knew better, and shook his head sadly. But Forster’s agitation, caused mainly by the mental strain of the last few days, filled him with deep concern.
A few minutes later three figures emerged on the open space of sand. These were Gavrolles, the Chevalier, his second, carrying a case of duelling pistols, and a little baldheaded man, carrying another case filled with surgical instruments.
The Chevalier led Sutherland apart.
‘These are the weapons. Do they meet with your approbation?’
Sutherland examined the pistols, and nodded.
‘Will you load them, monsieur, or shall I?’ asked the Chevalier, still politely.