It was one of the dark intervals when the moon was overcast. I was sufficiently interested to follow the boat, on the chance that a return of the moonlight might show me who could possibly be in it. After no very long interval, the yellow light for which I was waiting poured through the lifting clouds. The mill-boat, beyond all doubt--and nobody in it! The empty inside of the boat was perfectly visible to me. Even if I had felt inclined to do so, it would have been useless to jump into the water and swim to the boat. There were no oars in it, and therefore no means of taking it back to the mill. The one thing I could do was to run to old Toller and tell him that his boat was adrift. On my way to the cottage, I thought I heard a sound like the shutting of a door. I was probably mistaken. In expectation of my return, the door was secured by the latch only; and the miller, looking out of his bedroom window, said: "Don't forget to lock it, sir; the key's inside." I followed my instructions, and ascended the stairs. Surprised to hear me in that part of the house, he came out on the landing in his nightgown. "What is it?" he asked. "Nothing very serious," I said. "The boat's adrift. I suppose it will run on shore somewhere." "It will do that, Mr. Gerard; everybody along the river knows the boat." He held up his lean trembling hand. "Old fingers don't always tie fast knots." He went back into his bed. It was opposite the window; and the window, being at the side of the old cottage, looked out on the great open space above the river. When the moonlight appeared, it shone straight into his eyes. I offered to pull down the blind. "Thank you kindly, sir; please to let it be. I wake often in the night, and I like to see the heavens when I open my eyes." Something touched me behind: it was the dog. Like his noble and beautiful race, Ponto knew his friends. He licked my hand, and then he walked out through the bedroom door. Instead of taking his usual place, on the mat before Cristel's room, he smelt for a moment under the door--whined softly--and walked up and down the landing. "What's the matter with the dog?" I asked. "Restless to-night," said old Toller. "Dogs _are_ restless sometimes. Lie down!" he called through the doorway. The dog obeyed, but only for a moment. He whined at the door again--and then, once more, he walked up and down the landing. I went to the bedside. The old man was just going to sleep. I shook him by the shoulder. "There's something wrong," I said. "Come out and look at Ponto." He grumbled--but he came out. "Better get the whip," he said. "Before you do that," I answered, "knock at your daughter's door." "And wake her?" he asked in amazement. I knocked at the door myself. There was no reply. I knocked again, with the same result. "Open the door," I said, "or I will do it myself." He obeyed me. The room was empty; and the bed had not been slept in.