Chapter III.—The SpyAbout eleven o'clock, upon the following Sunday morning Tom Skelton was sitting upon one of the seats on the Esplanade at Southend seemingly at peace with all the world and very pleased with himself.
He was munching assiduously at ‘two pennoth’ of shrimps, which he from time to time abstracted from a small brown-paper bag, and so tender, succulent and tasty were these little denizens of the vasty deep that he was devouring them, heads, tails, scales and all, with no qualms whatsoever that they would upset his digestion.
Some fifty yards away, upon the sands below, his wife and two little ones were building a huge sand-castle, and he was lazily regarding them with the proud feelings of the admiring husband and father. Every now and then, however, he shot a glance up at
