But Eliphalet Cardomay was in no mood to spare him on that account. Like a destroyer circling a troop-ship, he revolved round the unhappy Aloysius, ever and anon firing salvoes of reproach and opprobrium. Even when, unable to endure longer the whips and scorns of the managerial tongue, Mr. Cartwright sought to escape, Eliphalet was close upon his heels, jerking out verbal grenades of the most poignant nature. Past the lines of melancholy fishers they pursued their way, hunted and hunter; through the turnstile of what might be called the super-pier upon which the Pavilion was situated, they made their way—Mr. Cartwright doing his best to preserve an air of stoic endurance, and Eliphalet Cardomay following with periodical explosions of artistic wrath. Above the box-office, the lurid poster of the hero leaping into the canal insisted upon recognition. “Look!” cried Eliphalet, restraining his quarry with the crook of his stick. “Look, and be ashamed! That is what I have led the public to expect, and——” His eye fell upon the photographer’s booth, not five yards distant, beside which sat a young lady, tilting back her chair against the chain bulwarks of the pier. “HA! It is not too late to make amends. I have never yet cheated my public. Come!” And seizing the youth by the arm, he dragged him protestingly towards the temple of photographic art. The photographer was seated within, indulging his appetite with a cut from the joint and two vegetables imported from a neighbouring café. He rose, politely masticating, as the two came in, and inquired, to the best ability of his well-filled mouth, in what manner he could be of service to them. “I have brought you a subject,” said Eliphalet. “I wish you to take this gentleman with his head thrust through the hole of that vile canvas of the shivering creature on the bathing-machine steps.” “I protest,” began Cartwright, but Eliphalet talked him down. “I shall want it enlarged to the size of the poster yonder, which it is destined to supplant. I shall placard it on every hoarding in the town. I shall——” But the sentence was never completed, for from immediately outside came a sharp, wild scream. Through the windows of the studio they had a momentary glimpse of a pair of white shoes and stockings pointing towards Heaven for a fraction of time. Followed another shriller scream and a deep, resonant splash. “Good ’eavens!” cried the photographer, rendered aitch-less by surprise. “That girl’s fallen in.” By common consent they rushed out, and were confronted with a view of an upturned chair, a swinging chain, and in the water below, the flash of a white skirt and an outstretched hand. “She’s drowning!” gasped Eliphalet, in genuine horror. Then spoke Aloysius Cartwright, and his words tumbled over one another like the waters of a cataract: