He felt the chill of the fog rising from the marsh, the loneliness of a wild bird's crying.
A strange ship had plunged into the marsh, disabled and burning. A man had escaped from the ship, but on the verge of death. Before he died he had recognized Sutton and had called his name. In his pocket he had a book that was not even written.
Those were the facts…the bare, hard facts. There was no explanation.
Faint sounds of human voices drifted down the night and Sutton rose swiftly to his feet, stood poised and waiting, listening. The voices came again.
Someone had heard the crash and was coming to investigate, coming down the road, calling to others who also had heard the crash.
Sutton turned and walked swiftly up the slope to the car.
There was, he told himself, no earthly use of waiting.
Those coming down the road would only cause him trouble.
XVII
A man was waiting in the clump of lilac bushes across the road and there was another one crouched in the shadow of the courtyard wall.