Some human shapes appearing mysteriously, as if they had sprung up from the dark ground, shunned the edge of the faint light thrown down by the gateway lamps.

These figures were wary in their movements and perfectly silent of foot, like beasts of prey slinking about a camp fire.

Powell gathered up his belongings and hovered over them like a hen over her brood.

A gruffly insinuating voice said: "Let's carry your things in, Capt'in! I've got my pal 'ere." He was a tall, bony, grey-haired ruffian with a bulldog jaw, in a torn cotton shirt and moleskin trousers.

The shadow of his hobnailed boots was enormous and coffinlike.