Atkins turned his gaze across the inlet.

In the rear window of the bungalow a dim light still burned.

As he watched, it was extinguished.

He groaned aloud, and, with his arms on the railing, thought and thought.
Suddenly he heard sounds, faint, but perceptible, above the low grumble of the surf.

They were repeated, the sounds of breaking sticks, as if some one was moving through the briers and bushes beyond the stable.
Some one was moving there, coming along the path from the upper end of the cove.