The Grove of Doom

Начало книги

LONG ISLAND SOUND lay blanketed with a dense, sullen mist. From the shore, the heavy fog appeared as a grimy mass of solid blackness. The scene was one of swirling, impenetrable night, for not a gleam of light disturbed that omnipresent darkness.

No eye could have discerned the spot where shore ceased and water began. The rocks beside the beach were invisible, and so was the man who stood near them. The only token of his presence was the sound of his slow, steady breathing, broken by the low, impatient growls that came muffled from his throat.

Beneath his feet, this man could feel the crunch of sand. Listening intently, he could catch the faint lapping of the water as it gnawed the fringe of the sloping beach. Every noise that came from the fog-covered reaches of the Sound caused this man to stop his slow pacing.

The faint chugging of a motorboat; the distant deep-blasted whistle of a passing steamship — these evidences of human beings far out upon the water were not what the man awaited. He was watching uselessly, listening vainly, hoping for a more subtle signal.

Читать дальше →