"It seems to me—" I began.
The interesting remark I was about to make was never uttered. From the high ground away to the left came the sudden crack of a revolver shot that rang out with startling viciousness on the night air. It was followed almost instantly by a second.
Tommy and I leaped up together, inspired simultaneously by the same idea. Being half way there, however, I easily reached the painter first.
"All right," I cried, "I'll pick him up. You haul in and have her ready to start."
I don't know exactly what the record is for getting off in a dinghy in the dark, but I think I hold it with something to spare. I was away from the ship and sculling furiously for the shore in about the same time that it has taken to write this particular sentence.
I pulled straight for the direction in which I had heard the shots. It was the steepest part of the cliff, but under the circumstances it seemed the most likely spot at which my services would be required. People are apt to take a short cut when revolver bullets are chasing about the neighbourhood.
I stopped rowing a few yards from the shore, and swinging the boat round, stared up through the gloom. There was just light enough to make out the top of the cliff, which appeared to be covered by a thick growth of gorse several feet in height. I backed away a stroke or two, and as I did so, there came a sudden snapping, rustling sound from up above, and the next instant the figure of a man broke through the bushes.
He peered down eagerly at the water.
"That you, Morrison?" he called out in a low, distinct voice, which I recognized at once.
"Yes," I answered briefly. It struck me as being no time for elaborate explanations.