E Phillips Oppenheim

The Devil's Paw E Phillips Oppenheim

The two men, sole occupants of the somewhat shabby cottage parlour, lingered overtheir port, not so much with the air of wine lovers, but rather as human beings andintimates, perfectly content with their surroundings and company. Outside, the wind washowling over the marshes, and occasional bursts of rain came streaming against thewindow panes. Inside at any rate was comfort, triumphing over varying conditions. Thecloth upon the plain deal table was of fine linen, the decanter and glasses were beautifullycut; there were walnuts and, in a far corner, cigars of a well-known brand and cigarettesfrom a famous tobacconist. Beyond that little oasis, however, were all the evidences of ahired abode. A hole in the closely drawn curtains was fastened together by a safety pin. Thehorsehair easy-chairs bore disfiguring antimacassars, the photographs which adorned thewalls were grotesque but typical of village ideals, the carpet was threadbare, the closeddoor secured by a latch instead of the usual knob. One side of the room was littered withgolf clubs, a huge game bag and several boxes of cartridges. Two shotguns lay upon theremains of a sofa. It scarcely needed the costume of Miles Furley, the host, to demonstratethe fact that this was the temporary abode of a visitor to the Blakeney marshes in search ofsport.