The others were just emerging from the French windows--grotesque, leaping things they looked, in the light that streamed out behind them from the room.
Jimmie Dale's feet pounded the planking of the wharf.

He stooped and snatched at the mooring line.

Mittel was almost at the wharf.

It seemed an age, a year to Jimmie Dale before the line was clear.

Shouts rang still louder across the lawn--the police, racing in a pack, were more than halfway from the house.