I had often and often observed the
capabilities of the sand-hills for protracted ambush or stealthy
advances and retreats; and, not ten yards from the scene of the
scuffle, plumped down again upon the grass. The lantern had fallen
and gone out. But what was my astonishment to see Northmour slip
at a bound into the pavilion, and hear him bar the door behind him
with a clang of iron!
He had not pursued me. He had run away. Northmour, whom I knew
for the most implacable and daring of men, had run away! I could
scarce believe my reason; and yet in this strange business, where
all was incredible, there was nothing to make a work about in an
incredibility more or less. For why was the pavilion secretly
prepared? Why had Northmour landed with his guests at dead of
night, in half a gale of wind, and with the floe scarce covered?
Why had he sought to kill me? Had he not recognised my voice? I
wondered. And, above all, how had he come to have a dagger ready
in his hand? A dagger, or even a sharp knife, seemed out of
keeping with the age in which we lived; and a gentleman landing
from his yacht on the shore of his own estate, even although it was
at night and with some mysterious circumstances, does not usually,
as a matter of fact, walk thus prepared for deadly onslaught. The
more I reflected, the further I felt at sea. I recapitulated the
elements of mystery, counting them on my fingers: the pavilion
secretly prepared for guests; the guests landed at the risk of
their lives and to the imminent peril of the yacht; the guests, or
at least one of them, in undisguised and seemingly causeless
terror; Northmour with a naked weapon; Northmour stabbing his most
intimate acquaintance at a word; last, and not least strange,
Northmour fleeing from the man whom he had sought to murder, and
barricading himself, like a hunted creature, behind the door of the
pavilion.
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