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Followed another wait, this time of half an hour. Then a man's footsteps a booted, leather-heeled man, striding carelessly. Not far behind him was the softer noise of sandals. The man began to whistle Annie Laurie. "Charles? That you?" called King. "That you, old man?" A man in khaki stepped into the moonlight.
The guard moved in silent rhythm; the chief sound was that made by Watson's leather-heeled shoes, drowning out, for once, the everlasting tinkling undertone of those unseen fairy-bells; that running cadence, never ceasing, silver, liquid, like the soul of sound. Though Watson walked with head erect, he had eyes for every little thing he passed.
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