"What's wrong with them? That's what you'd be
asking--eh?--if your poor tongue could find the words. Well, only
this, my friend--yes, look well at them--that I hid them myself, and
every one of them is false."
"False!" I could see Glass's mouth at work, his lips forming to the
echo of the word, as it struck across his terror like a whip. But he
achieved no articulate sound.
"I give you my word--" resumed Dr. Beauregard; but a thud interrupted
him. Glass had fallen forward in a faint, striking his forehead
against the edge of the chest, and lay face downward--with the blood
oozing from his temple and discolouring the sand. As the Doctor
paused and bent over him, another wave came rippling up the beach,
throwing a long, thin curve of foam before it, and washed out the
stain.
"Is--is he dead?" I heard Plinny's voice quavering.
"Not yet, ma'am," answered the Doctor, grimly; and, taking the
inanimate body by the collar, he drew it above reach of the waves,
and turned it over.
"You are a doctor, sir?"
"Yes, ma'am, and have some small skill." He put up a hand to his
breast-pocket, half withdrew it, and hesitated. "You have baulked me
of a pretty little scheme," he said quietly. And still while he
addressed us he seemed to be considering.
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