From the bathroom came an unpleasant and characteristic sound.
"Is there anything the matter?" Helmholtz called.
There was no answer. The unpleasant sound was repeated, twice; there was
silence. Then, with a click the bathroom door opened and, very pale, the
Savage emerged.
"I say," Helmholtz exclaimed solicitously, "you do look ill, John!"
"Did you eat something that didn't agree with you?" asked Bernard.
The Savage nodded. "I ate civilization."
"What?"
"It poisoned me; I was defiled. And then," he added, in a lower tone, "I
ate my own wickedness."
"Yes, but what exactly? … I mean, just now you were …"
"Now I am purified," said the Savage. "I drank some mustard and warm
water."
The others stared at him in astonishment. "Do you mean to say that you
were doing it on purpose?" asked Bernard.
"That's how the Indians always purify themselves." He sat down and,
sighing, passed his hand across his forehead. "I shall rest for a few
minutes," he said. "I'm rather tired."
"Well, I'm not surprised," said Helmholtz. After a silence, "We've come to
say good-bye," he went on in another tone. "We're off to-morrow morning."
"Yes, we're off to-morrow," said Bernard on whose face the Savage remarked
a new expression of determined resignation. "And by the way, John," he
continued, leaning forward in his chair and laying a hand on the Savage's
knee, "I want to say how sorry I am about everything that happened yesterday."
He blushed. "How ashamed," he went on, in spite of the unsteadiness of his
voice, "how really …"
The Savage cut him short and, taking his hand, affectionately pressed it.
"Helmholtz was wonderful to me," Bernard resumed, after a little pause.
"If it hadn't been for him, I should …"
"Now, now," Helmholtz protested.
There was a silence. In spite of their sadness–because of it, even; for
their sadness was the symptom of their love for one another–the three young
men were happy.
"I went to see the Controller this morning," said the Savage at last.
"What for?"
"To ask if I mightn't go to the islands with you."
"And what did he say?" asked Helmholtz eagerly.
The Savage shook his head. "He wouldn't let me."
"Why not?"
"He said he wanted to go on with the experiment. But I'm damned," the
Savage added, with sudden fury, "I'm damned if I'll go on being experimented
with. Not for all the Controllers in the world. l shall go away to-morrow
too."
"But where?" the others asked in unison.
The Savage shrugged his shoulders. "Anywhere. I don't care. So long as I
can be alone."
From Guildford the down-line followed the Wey valley to Godalming, then,
over Milford and Witley, proceeded to Haslemere and on through Petersfield
towards Portsmouth. Roughly parallel to it, the upline passed over Worplesden,
Tongham, Puttenham, Elstead and Grayshott. Between the Hog's Back and Hindhead
there were points where the two lines were not more than six or seven
kilometres apart. The distance was too small for careless flyers–particularly
at night and when they had taken half a gramme too much. There had been
accidents. Serious ones. It had been decided to deflect the upline a few
kilometres to the west. Between Grayshott and Tongham four abandoned
air-lighthouses marked the course of the old Portsmouth-to-London road. The
skies above them were silent and deserted. It was over Selborne, Bordon and
Farnham that the helicopters now ceaselessly hummed and roared.
The Savage had chosen as his hermitage the old light-house which stood on
the crest of the hill between Puttenham and Elstead. The building was of
ferro-concrete and in excellent condition–almost too comfortable the Savage
had thought when he first explored the place, almost too civilizedly
luxurious. He pacified his conscience by promising himself a compensatingly
harder self-discipline, purifications the more complete and thorough. His
first night in the hermitage was, deliberately, a sleepless one. He spent the
hours on his knees praying, now to that Heaven from which the guilty Claudius
had begged forgiveness, now in Zuñi to Awonawilona, now to Jesus and Pookong,
now to his own guardian animal, the eagle. From time to time he stretched out
his arms as though he were on the Cross, and held them thus through long
minutes of an ache that gradually increased till it became a tremulous and
excruciating agony; held them, in voluntary crucifixion, while he repeated,
through clenched teeth (the sweat, meanwhile, pouring down his face), "Oh,
forgive me! Oh, make me pure! Oh, help me to be good!" again and again, till
he was on the point of fainting from the pain.
When morning came, he felt he had earned the right to inhabit the
lighthouse; yet, even though there still was glass in most of the windows,
even though the view from the platform was so fine. For the very reason why he
had chosen the lighthouse had become almost instantly a reason for going
somewhere else. He had decided to live there because the view was so
beautiful, because, from his vantage point, he seemed to be looking out on to
the incarnation of a divine being. But who was he to be pampered with the
daily and hourly sight of loveliness? Who was he to be living in the visible
presence of God? All he deserved to live in was some filthy sty, some blind
hole in the ground. Stiff and still aching after his long night of pain, but
for that very reason inwardly reassured, he climbed up to the platform of his
tower, he looked out over the bright sunrise world which he had regained the
right to inhabit. On the north the view was bounded by the long chalk ridge of
the Hog's Back, from behind whose eastern extremity rose the towers of the
seven skyscrapers which constituted Guildford. Seeing them, the Savage made a
grimace; but he was to become reconciled to them in course of time; for at
night they twinkled gaily with geometrical constellations, or else,
flood-lighted, pointed their luminous fingers (with a gesture whose
significance nobody in England but the Savage now understood) solemnly towards
the plumbless mysteries of heaven.
In the valley which separated the Hog's Back from the sandy hill on which
the lighthouse stood, Puttenham was a modest little village nine stories high,
with silos, a poultry farm, and a small vitamin-D factory. On the other side
of the lighthouse, towards the South, the ground fell away in long slopes of
heather to a chain of ponds.
Beyond them, above the intervening woods, rose the fourteen-story tower of
Elstead. Dim in the hazy English air, Hindhead and Selborne invited the eye
into a blue romantic distance. But it was not alone the distance that had
attracted the Savage to his lighthouse; the near was as seductive as the far.
The woods, the open stretches of heather and yellow gorse, the clumps of
Scotch firs, the shining ponds with their overhanging birch trees, their water
lilies, their beds of rushes–these were beautiful and, to an eye accustomed to
the aridities of the American desert, astonishing. And then the solitude!
Whole days passed during which he never saw a human being. The lighthouse was
only a quarter of an hour's flight from the Charing-T Tower; but the hills of
Malpais were hardly more deserted than this Surrey heath. The crowds that
daily left London, left it only to play Electro-magnetic Golf or Tennis.
Puttenham possessed no links; the nearest Riemann-surfaces were at Guildford.
Flowers and a landscape were the only attractions here. And so, as there was
no good reason for coming, nobody came. During the first days the Savage lived
alone and undisturbed.
Of the money which, on his first arrival, John had received for his
personal expenses, most had been spent on his equipment. Before leaving London
he had bought four viscose-woollen blankets, rope and string, nails, glue, a
few tools, matches (though he intended in due course to make a fire drill),
some pots and pans, two dozen packets of seeds, and ten kilogrammes of wheat
flour. "No, not synthetic starch and cotton-waste flour-substitute," he
had insisted. "Even though it is more nourishing." But when it came to
pan-glandular biscuits and vitaminized beef-surrogate, he had not been able to
resist the shopman's persuasion. Looking at the tins now, he bitterly
reproached himself for his weakness. Loathesome civilized stuff! He had made
up his mind that he would never eat it, even if he were starving. "That'll
teach them," he thought vindictively. It would also teach him.
He counted his money. The little that remained would be enough, he hoped,
to tide him over the winter. By next spring, his garden would be producing
enough to make him independent of the outside world. Meanwhile, there would
always be game. He had seen plenty of rabbits, and there were waterfowl on the
ponds. He set to work at once to make a bow and arrows.
There were ash trees near the lighthouse and, for arrow shafts, a whole
copse full of beautifully straight hazel saplings. He began by felling a young
ash, cut out six feet of unbranched stem, stripped off the bark and, paring by
paring, shaved away the white wood, as old Mitsima had taught him, until he
had a stave of his own height, stiff at the thickened centre, lively and quick
at the slender tips. The work gave him an intense pleasure. After those weeks
of idleness in London, with nothing to do, whenever he wanted anything, but to
press a switch or turn a handle, it was pure delight to be doing something
that demanded skill and patience.
He had almost finished whittling the stave into shape, when he realized
with a start that he was singing-singing! It was as though, stumbling
upon himself from the outside, he had suddenly caught himself out, taken
himself flagrantly at fault. Guiltily he blushed. After all, it was not to
sing and enjoy himself that he had come here. It was to escape further
contamination by the filth of civilized life; it was to be purified and made
good; it was actively to make amends. He realized to his dismay that, absorbed
in the whittling of his bow, he had forgotten what he had sworn to himself he
would constantly remember–poor Linda, and his own murderous unkindness to her,
and those loathsome twins, swarming like lice across the mystery of her death,
insulting, with their presence, not merely his own grief and repentance, but
the very gods themselves. He had sworn to remember, he had sworn unceasingly
to make amends. And there was he, sitting happily over his bow-stave, singing,
actually singing. …
He went indoors, opened the box of mustard, and put some water to boil on
the fire.
Half an hour later, three Delta-Minus landworkers from one of the
Puttenham Bokanovsky Groups happened to be driving to Elstead and, at the top
of the hill, were astonished to see a young man standing 0utside the abandoned
lighthouse stripped to the waist and hitting himself with a whip of knotted
cords. His back was horizontally streaked with crimson, and from weal to weal
ran thin trickles of blood. The driver of the lorry pulled up at the side of
the road and, with his two companions, stared open-mouthed at the
extraordinary spectacle. One, two three–they counted the strokes. After the
eighth, the young man interrupted his self-punishment to run to the wood's
edge and there be violently sick. When he had finished, he picked up the whip
and began hitting himself again. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve …
"Ford!" whispered the driver. And his twins were of the same opinion.
"Fordey!" they said.
Three days later, like turkey buzzards settling on a corpse, the reporters
came.
Dried and hardened over a slow fire of green wood, the bow was ready. The
Savage was busy on his arrows. Thirty hazel sticks had been whittled and
dried, tipped with sharp nails, carefully nocked. He had made a raid one night
on the Puttenham poultry farm, and now had feathers enough to equip a whole
armoury. It was at work upon the feathering of his shafts that the first of
the reporters found him. Noiseless on his pneumatic shoes, the man came up
behind him.
"Good-morning, Mr. Savage," he said. "I am the representative of The
Hourly Radio."
Startled as though by the bite of a snake, the Savage sprang to his feet,
scattering arrows, feathers, glue-pot and brush in all directions.
"I beg your pardon," said the reporter, with genuine compunction. "I had
no intention …" He touched his hat–the aluminum stove-pipe hat in which he
carried his wireless receiver and transmitter. "Excuse my not taking it off,"
he said. "It's a bit heavy. Well, as I was saying, I am the representative of
The Hourly …"
"What do you want?" asked the Savage, scowling. The reporter returned his
most ingratiating smile.
"Well, of course, our readers would be profoundly interested …" He put his
head on one side, his smile became almost coquettish. "Just a few words from
you, Mr. Savage." And rapidly, with a series of ritual gestures, he uncoiled
two wires connected to the portable battery buckled round his waist; plugged
them simultaneously into the sides of his aluminum hat; touched a spring on
the crown–and antennæ shot up into the air; touched another spring on the peak
of the brim–and, like a jack-in-the-box, out jumped a microphone and hung
there, quivering, six inches in front of his nose; pulled down a pair of
receivers over his ears; pressed a switch on the left side of the hat-and from
within came a faint waspy buzzing; turned a knob on the right–and the buzzing
was interrupted by a stethoscopic wheeze and cackle, by hiccoughs and sudden
squeaks. "Hullo," he said to the microphone, "hullo, hullo …" A bell suddenly
rang inside his hat. "Is that you, Edzel? Primo Mellon speaking. Yes, I've got
hold of him. Mr. Savage will now take the microphone and say a few words.
Won't you, Mr. Savage?" He looked up at the Savage with another of those
winning smiles of his. "Just tell our readers why you came here. What made you
leave London (hold on, Edzel!) so very suddenly. And, of course, that whip."
(The Savage started. How did they know about the whip?) "We're all crazy to
know about the whip. And then something about Civilization. You know the sort
of stuff. 'What I think of the Civilized Girl.' Just a few words, a very few
…"
The Savage obeyed with a disconcerting literalness. Five words he uttered
and no more-five words, the same as those he had said to Bernard about the
Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury. "Háni! Sons éso tse-ná!" And
seizing the reporter by the shoulder, he spun him round (the young man
revealed himself invitingly well-covered), aimed and, with all the force and
accuracy of a champion foot-and-mouth-baller, delivered a most prodigious
kick.
Eight minutes later, a new edition of The Hourly Radio was on sale
in the streets of London. "HOURLY RADIO REPORTER HAS COCCYX KICKED BY MYSTERY
SAVAGE," ran the headlines on the front page. "SENSATION IN SURREY."
"Sensation even in London," thought the reporter when, on his return, he
read the words. And a very painful sensation, what was more. He sat down
gingerly to his luncheon.
Undeterred by that cautionary bruise on their colleague's coccyx, four
other reporters, representing the New York Times, the Frankfurt
Four-Dimensional Continuum, The Fordian Science Monitor, and
The Delta Mirror, called that afternoon at the lighthouse and met with
receptions of progressively increasing violence.
From a safe distance and still rubbing his buttocks, "Benighted fool!"
shouted the man from The Fordian Science Monitor, "why don't you take
soma?"
"Get away!" The Savage shook his fist.
The other retreated a few steps then turned round again. "Evil's an
unreality if you take a couple of grammes."
"Kohakwa iyathtokyai!" The tone was menacingly derisive.
"Pain's a delusion."
"Oh, is it?" said the Savage and, picking up a thick hazel switch, strode
forward.
The man from The Fordian Science Monitor made a dash for his helicopter.
After that the Savage was left for a time in peace. A few helicopters came
and hovered inquisitively round the tower. He shot an arrow into the
importunately nearest of them. It pierced the aluminum floor of the cabin;
there was a shrill yell, and the machine went rocketing up into the air with
all the acceleration that its super-charger could give it. The others, in
future, kept their distance respectfully. Ignoring their tiresome humming (he
likened himself in his imagination to one of the suitors of the Maiden of
Mátsaki, unmoved and persistent among the winged vermin), the Savage dug at
what was to be his garden. After a time the vermin evidently became bored and
flew away; for hours at a stretch the sky above his head was empty and, but
for the larks, silent.
The weather was breathlessly hot, there was thunder in the air. He had dug
all the morning and was resting, stretched out along the floor. And suddenly
the thought of Lenina was a real presence, naked and tangible, saying "Sweet!"
and "Put your arms round me!"–in shoes and socks, perfumed. Impudent strumpet!
But oh, oh, her arms round his neck, the lifting of her breasts, her mouth!
Eternity was in our lips and eyes. Lenina … No, no, no, no! He sprang to his
feet and, half naked as he was, ran out of the house. At the edge of the heath
stood a clump of hoary juniper bushes. He flung himself against them, he
embraced, not the smooth body of his desires, but an armful of green spikes.
Sharp, with a thousand points, they pricked him. He tried to think of poor
Linda, breathless and dumb, with her clutching hands and the unutterable
terror in her eyes. Poor Linda whom he had sworn to remember. But it was still
the presence of Lenina that haunted him. Lenina whom he had promised to
forget. Even through the stab and sting of the juniper needles, his wincing
flesh was aware of her, unescapably real. "Sweet, sweet … And if you wanted me
too, why didn't you …"
The whip was hanging on a nail by the door, ready to hand against the
arrival of reporters. In a frenzy the Savage ran back to the house, seized it,
whirled it. The knotted cords bit into his flesh.
"Strumpet! Strumpet!" he shouted at every blow as though it were Lenina
(and how frantically, without knowing it, he wished it were), white, warm,
scented, infamous Lenina that he was dogging thus. "Strumpet!" And then, in a
voice of despair, "Oh, Linda, forgive me. Forgive me, God. I'm bad. I'm
wicked. I'm … No, no, you strumpet, you strumpet!"
From his carefully constructed hide in the wood three hundred metres away,
Darwin Bonaparte, the Feely Corporation's most expert big game photographer
had watched the whole proceedings. Patience and skill had been rewarded. He
had spent three days sitting inside the bole of an artificial oak tree, three
nights crawling on his belly through the heather, hiding microphones in gorse
bushes, burying wires in the soft grey sand. Seventy-two hours of profound
discomfort. But now me great moment had come–the greatest, Darwin Bonaparte
had time to reflect, as he moved among his instruments, the greatest since his
taking of the famous all-howling stereoscopic feely of the gorillas' wedding.
"Splendid," he said to himself, as the Savage started his astonishing
performance. "Splendid!" He kept his telescopic cameras carefully aimed–glued
to their moving objective; clapped on a higher power to get a close-up of the
frantic and distorted face (admirable!); switched over, for half a minute, to
slow motion (an exquisitely comical effect, he promised himself); listened in,
meanwhile, to the blows, the groans, the wild and raving words that were being
recorded on the sound-track at the edge of his film, tried the effect of a
little amplification (yes, that was decidedly better); was delighted to hear,
in a momentary lull, the shrill singing of a lark; wished the Savage would
turn round so that he could get a good close-up of the blood on his back–and
almost instantly (what astonishing luck!) the accommodating fellow did turn
round, and he was able to take a perfect close-up.
"Well, that was grand!" he said to himself when it was all over. "Really
grand!" He mopped his face. When they had put in the feely effects at the
studio, it would be a wonderful film. Almost as good, thought Darwin
Bonaparte, as the Sperm Whale's Love-Life–and that, by Ford, was saying
a good deal!
Twelve days later The Savage of Surrey had been released and could be
seen, heard and felt in every first-class feely-palace in Western Europe.
The effect of Darwin Bonaparte's film was immediate and enormous. On the
afternoon which followed the evening of its release John's rustic solitude was
suddenly broken by the arrival overhead of a great swarm of helicopters.
He was digging in his garden–digging, too, in his own mind, laboriously
turning up the substance of his thought. Death–and he drove in his spade once,
and again, and yet again. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to
dusty death. A convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another
spadeful of earth. Why had Linda died? Why had she been allowed to become
gradually less than human and at last … He shuddered. A good kissing carrion.
He planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough
ground. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their
sport. Thunder again; words that proclaimed themselves true–truer somehow than
truth itself. And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle gods.
Besides, thy best of rest is sleep and that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly
fear'st thy death which is no more. No more than sleep. Sleep. Perchance to
dream. His spade struck against a stone; he stooped to pick it up. For in that
sleep of death, what dreams? …
A humming overhead had become a roar; and suddenly he was in shadow, there
was something between the sun and him. He looked up, startled, from his
digging, from his thoughts; looked up in a dazzled bewilderment, his mind
still wandering in that other world of truer-than-truth, still focused on the
immensities of death and deity; looked up and saw, close above him, the swarm
of hovering machines. Like locusts they came, hung poised, descended all
around him on the heather. And from out of the bellies of these giant
grasshoppers stepped men in white viscose-flannels, women (for the weather was
hot) in acetate-shantung pyjamas or velveteen shorts and sleeveless,
half-unzippered singlets–one couple from each. In a few minutes there were
dozens of them, standing in a wide circle round the lighthouse, staring,
laughing, clicking their cameras, throwing (as to an ape) peanuts, packets of
sex-hormone chewing-gum, pan-glandular petite beurres. And every
moment–for across the Hog's Back the stream of traffic now flowed
unceasingly–their numbers increased. As in a nightmare, the dozens became
scores, the scores hundreds.
The Savage had retreated towards cover, and now, in the posture of an
animal at bay, stood with his back to the wall of the lighthouse, staring from
face to face in speechless horror, like a man out of his senses.
From this stupor he was aroused to a more immediate sense of reality by
the impact on his cheek of a well-aimed packet of chewing-gum. A shock of
startling pain–and he was broad awake, awake and fiercely angry.
"Go away!" he shouted.
The ape had spoken; there was a burst of laughter and hand-clapping. "Good
old Savage! Hurrah, hurrah!" And through the babel he heard cries of: "Whip,
whip, the whip!"
Acting on the word's suggestion, he seized the bunch of knotted cords from
its nail behind the door and shook it at his tormentors.
There was a yell of ironical applause.
Menacingly he advanced towards them. A woman cried out in fear. The line
wavered at its most immediately threatened point, then stiffened again, stood
firm. The consciousness of being in overwhelming force had given these
sightseers a courage which the Savage had not expected of them. Taken aback,
he halted and looked round.
"Why don't you leave me alone?" There was an almost plaintive note in his
anger.
"Have a few magnesium-salted almonds!" said the man who, if the Savage
were to advance, would be the first to be attacked. He held out a packet.
"They're really very good, you know," he added, with a rather nervous smile of
propitiation. "And the magnesium salts will help to keep you young."
The Savage ignored his offer. "What do you want with me?" he asked,
turning from one grinning face to another. "What do you want with me?"
"The whip," answered a hundred voices confusedly. "Do the whipping stunt.
Let's see the whipping stunt."
Then, in unison and on a slow, heavy rhythm, "We-want-the whip," shouted a
group at the end of the line. "We–want–the whip."
Others at once took up the cry, and the phrase was repeated,
parrot-fashion, again and again, with an ever-growing volume of sound, until,
by the seventh or eighth reiteration, no other word was being spoken.
"We–want–the whip."
They were all crying together; and, intoxicated by the noise, the
unanimity, the sense of rhythmical atonement, they might, it seemed, have gone
on for hours-almost indefinitely. But at about the twenty-fifth repetition the
proceedings were startlingly interrupted. Yet another helicopter had arrived
from across the Hog's Back, hung poised above the crowd, then dropped within a
few yards of where the Savage was standing, in the open space between the line
of sightseers and the lighthouse. The roar of the air screws momentarily
drowned the shouting; then, as the machine touched the ground and the engines
were turned off: "We–want–the whip; we–want–the whip," broke out again in the
same loud, insistent monotone.
The door of the helicopter opened, and out stepped, first a fair and
ruddy-faced young man, then, in green velveteen shorts, white shirt, and
jockey cap, a young woman.
At the sight of the young woman, the Savage started, recoiled, turned
pale.
The young woman stood, smiling at him–an uncertain, imploring, almost
abject smile. The seconds passed. Her lips moved, she was saying something;
but the sound of her voice was covered by the loud reiterated refrain of the
sightseers.
"We–want–the whip! We–want–the whip!"
The young woman pressed both hands to her left side, and on that
peach-bright, doll-beautiful face of hers appeared a strangely incongruous
expression of yearning distress. Her blue eyes seemed to grow larger,
brighter; and suddenly two tears rolled down her cheeks. Inaudibly, she spoke
again; then, with a quick, impassioned gesture stretched out her arms towards
the Savage, stepped forward.
"We–want–the whip! We–want …"
And all of a sudden they had what they wanted.
"Strumpet!" The Savage had rushed at her like a madman. "Fitchew!" Like a
madman, he was slashing at her with his whip of small cords.
Terrified, she had turned to flee, had tripped and fallen in the heather.
"Henry, Henry!" she shouted. But her ruddy-faced companion had bolted out of
harm's way behind the helicopter.
With a whoop of delighted excitement the line broke; there was a
convergent stampede towards that magnetic centre of attraction. Pain was a
fascinating horror.
"Fry, lechery, fry!" Frenzied, the Savage slashed again.
Hungrily they gathered round, pushing and scrambling like swine about the
trough.
"Oh, the flesh!" The Savage ground his teeth. This time it was on his
shoulders that the whip descended. "Kill it, kill it!"
Drawn by the fascination of the horror of pain and, from within, impelled
by that habit of cooperation, that desire for unanimity and atonement, which
their conditioning had so ineradicably implanted in them, they began to mime
the frenzy of his gestures, striking at one another as the Savage struck at
his own rebellious flesh, or at that plump incarnation of turpitude writhing
in the heather at his feet.
"Kill it, kill it, kill it …" The Savage went on shouting.
Then suddenly somebody started singing "Orgy-porgy" and, in a moment, they
had all caught up the refrain and, singing, had begun to dance. Orgy-porgy,
round and round and round, beating one another in six-eight time. Orgy-porgy …
It was after midnight when the last of the helicopters took its flight.
Stupefied by soma, and exhausted by a long-drawn frenzy of sensuality, the
Savage lay sleeping in the heather. The sun was already high when he awoke. He
lay for a moment, blinking in owlish incomprehension at the light; then
suddenly remembered–everything.
"Oh, my God, my God!" He covered his eyes with his hand.
That evening the swarm of helicopters that came buzzing across the Hog's
Back was a dark cloud ten kilometres long. The description of last night's
orgy of atonement had been in all the papers.
"Savage!" called the first arrivals, as they alighted from their machine.
"Mr. Savage!"
There was no answer.
The door of the lighthouse was ajar. They pushed it open and walked into a
shuttered twilight. Through an archway on the further side of the room they
could see the bottom of the staircase that led up to the higher floors. Just
under the crown of the arch dangled a pair of feet.
"Mr. Savage!"
Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet turned
towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south,
south-south-west; then paused, and, after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly
back towards the left. South-south-west, south, south-east, east. …
