An official note in his voice was recognizable. O’Shea turned quickly. The ever-increasing group drew more closely around us. A second constable was making his way across from Parliament Square. “The trouble is,” said O’Shea, “that this gate is locked, and I want to get on to the pier.” The man, whose face seemed to have been chiselled out of seasoned teak, stared in a curious way. Then the breathless constable burst upon us. “Just a minute!” he began. “I want to know some more about this business!” He became uneasily aware of the presence of our weatherbeaten acquaintance. He stopped in the act of laying his hand upon O’Shea’s arm. O’Shea, watching the man who had accosted us, spoke, and: “Sergeant Donoghue!” he said. The expression on the grim face changed. The man so addressed drew himself smartly to attention. It was automatic--second nature; but his smile was good to see. “Thank you, sir,” said he, “for remembering me.” O’Shea held out his hand. “Stand easy, Sergeant,” he replied. “I gather that you have left the Army and rejoined the Police.” Donoghue’s eyes were glistening as he grasped the proffered hand. “I have that, sir,” he said, “and without loss of rank. I am a detective-sergeant now.” He glanced at the two constables--for the Parliament Square reinforcement had come up. “Carry on,” he directed, “there’s a man drowning. Leave this to me.” “Donoghue,” said O’Shea, “do you hate the Reds?” “I do, sir!” “Well, one of them has just jumped off the Bridge. He is a powerful swimmer. I want to get on to the pier and into a boat.” “You are in luck, sir,” Donoghue returned enthusiastically, “for to-night I happen to have the key.” When, a minute later, we pushed out into the stream, watched by an ever-increasing group of idlers, I thought how proud a man must feel to see a light like that which had crossed Donoghue’s face as he had recognized the officer he had served under. One such silent tribute is worth more than a thousand cheers. “Do you remember the night behind the farm, sir?” Donoghue asked. And O’Shea in reply merely laid his hand upon his shoulder and gripped hard for a moment. But this apparently simple question had a far-reaching result, as I was presently to learn. A fairly strong current was running, which, together with O’Shea’s recollection of the swimmer’s position as seen from the Bridge, sufficiently indicated where we should lay our course. Certain official steps had automatically been taken, and we were not alone in our quest. Apparently, even at two o’clock in the morning, it is contrary to County Council regulations for anyone to bathe from Westminster Bridge. Looking up from that unfamiliar viewpoint at certain London landmarks outlined against the clear sky, I wondered why Fate always seems to put a brake upon our joy-rides.