It was not now in the spirit of covetousness that Tom longed to be upon the trim little cruiser. He would not think of buying her, not unless Anson Dyker, answering the charge of murder, should refuse the money which he, Tom, would, oh so gladly, proffer. But it seemed isolated out there, and that accorded with his mood. He was overwhelmed and borne down by the grim duty, which was his. How could a thing which made him feel so contemptible, so despicable, be a good thing to do. “_It is your, accusation, you’re a part of the state._” How logical, clear, true, was Audry’s reasoning. Of course she was right. She had read books and all that and she knew. Tom wondered what Whalen—Dyker—would say, and how he would act, when they went up there to get him. Tom thought he would just give that weary look, lay down his axe and follow the men, the detectives. Perhaps it would even be a relief to him. Would he have to know that Tom was the one—the good citizen? He would just say good-bye to the men in that taciturn way of his; he could never be excited, he could never be otherwise than brave—_never_. Tom was glad to think that there was one up there who would be loyal, elegantly loyal, and try to cheer him. Fairgreaves. He was all right, Fairgreaves. Cutaway coat and derby hat and royal manner, but he was all right. He hardly saw where he was going, so deep and vivid was his musing. And so utterly wretched was he. In a kind of trance he went to the little house and asked if he might use the boat. Louis knew him and gave a ready consent. He was proud to be of service to the young assistant at Temple Camp. Then the next thing he knew, he was out upon the river rowing toward his first love, the _Goodfellow_. His going was not quite so aimless as his journey away from Kingston, for now he had an hour or two that must be passed somehow. And he wanted to be alone. It seemed to him like a night before execution. Out there he would decide just what he would say in Kingston—the very first thing in the morning. It had to be done so he might as well do it early. But now he wanted to be alone. CHAPTER XXXIII GOODFELLOW He liked rowing in the choppy water. It meant the first energetic work he had done all day. For just ten or fifteen minutes he put all his fine vigor into his encounter with the wind-blown river. It would be easier rowing back, he thought. It was dusk when he tied the skiff to the _Goodfellow’s_ rail and climbed into the cockpit. The gay, striped awning which had covered this at the time of his first visit was blown to shreds which fluttered in the breeze like a dozen or more forlorn pennants. One faded remnant had wound itself like a bandage around one of the nickeled stanchions.