He edged Emily close up against the gunwale, her extremities on a couple of thwarts, her middle sagging down the side of the boat. He looked quickly up the river and down the river and at Hammerton Terrace and at the oil-mills below and at the empty towpath on the opposite bank, all silent, all still. Stephen put a hand under the sack. Close by a tiny fish leaped lightly from the river. Stephen saw the flash of its belly, and took his hand away with a start. Then with a great heave under Emily's middle, a violent pushing and lifting with feet and body and arms, that set the sculls clattering and the boat precariously rocking he got the body half over the gunwale, John perched anxiously on the other side, striving to correct the already dangerous list. Stephen struggled blasphemously with the infuriating sack. Somehow, somewhere it was maddeningly entangled with something in the boat. Frantic tugging and thrusting, irritable oaths, moved it not at all. John looked fearfully behind him. A lighted omnibus was swimming through space, perilously near ... Hammersmith Bridge. Stephen was kicking the body now with a futile savagery. "What the hell?" he said. "O God!" John groped distantly with a hand in the dark. Then, "The anchor!" he said--"the anchor's caught...." He heard a relieved "O Lord!" from Stephen, "thought I'd put the anchor end over first"--and for the first time made himself a petulant comment, "Why the devil didn't you?" It was too much--this sort of thing. Then the shaggy end of the sack was slithering quietly over the side, the anchor twinkled swiftly in the moon, and the relieved boat rocked suddenly with a wild, delighted levity. Emily was gone. Peering back upstream, the two men saw a slowly expanding circle on the black water. And there were a few bubbles. Emily was indeed gone. Stephen sat in a limp posture of absolute exhaustion, his shoulders hunched, his head on his hands, speechless. John looked at his watch. It was a quarter-past ten--only about an hour since Emily died. He stared incredulous at the faintly luminous hands. Then he looked round; the boat seemed to be drifting very fast. On his right were the boat-houses, a dark huddle of boats clinging to the rafts in front of them. The boat-houses were next to the Bridge. He looked back and up, with a new fear. The long span of the suspension bridge hung almost above them. A bus rumbled ominously above. Two persons were standing on the footpath against the parapet, looking down at the boat. He could see the pale blobs of their faces. One of them had a Panama hat. The boat shot into the dark under the Bridge. John leaned forward. "Stephen," he whispered--"Stephen." There was no answer. John touched his knee. "Stephen." A yellow face lifted slowly. "What is it?" "There was some one watching on the Bridge ... two men." Stephen sighed with a profound weariness. "It can't be helped," he said.