That evening, just before dinner, as Mrs. Bantam had correctly reported, the doctor had been sent for. And Stephen, waiting in the garden for his descent, gazing moodily through a thin drizzle at the grey rising river, had seen unmistakably fifty yards from the bank a semi-submerged object drifting rapidly past, wrapped up in sacking. A large bulge of sacking had shown above the surface. It was Emily Gaunt. He was sure it was Emily Gaunt because of the colour of the sacking--a peculiar yellowish tint, unusual in sacks. And because he had always known it would happen. He had always known the rope would work on the flimsy stuff as the tide pulled, and eventually part it altogether. And now it had happened. When he saw it he did not know what to do. "I felt like rushing out into the boat at once," Stephen said, "and catching the thing--but the doctor ... Margery ... I had to wait...." he finished vaguely. "Of course," said John. "When he came down he said all was well--or fairly so--and he'd come again this evening. I'm expecting him now." Then with sudden energy, "I wish to God he'd come.... Is that _him_?" Stephen stopped and listened. John listened. There was no sound. "But we mustn't waste time--half-past eight now--tide turning in a moment." He leaned forward now, and began to speak with a jerky, almost incoherent haste, telescoping his words. "When he'd gone I dashed down to the boat ... could still see the--the thing in the distance--going round the bend ... thought I'd catch it easily, but the engine wouldn't start--of COURSE! Took me half an hour ... starved for petrol, I think...." He stopped for a moment, as if still speculating on the precise malady of the engine. "When I _did_ get away ... went like a bird ... nearly up to Kew ... but not a sign of the--the sack ... looked everywhere ... couldn't wait any longer ... I _had_ to get back ... only just back now ... against the tide. John, will _you_ go out now?... for God's sake, go ... take the boat and just patrol about ... slack water now ... tide turns in about ten minutes ... the damned thing _must_ come down ... unless it's stuck somewhere ... you must go, John. We must get hold of it tonight ... tonight ... or they'll find it in the morning. And, John," he added, as a hideous afterthought, his voice rising to a kind of hysterical shriek, "there's a label on the sack--with my name and address--I remembered yesterday." "But ... but ..." began John. "Quick!... I've got to get back." Stephen stood up. "God knows what they think of me at home as it is.... Say you'll go, John--_here's_ the key of the boat ... she'll start at once now.... It's a thousand to one chance, but it's worth it.... And if you're not quick it'll go past again." Something of his old masterfulness was coming back with his excitement. But when John still hesitated, his slow mouth framing the beginnings of objection, the hunted look came upon Stephen again.