There were no loops for the descent. Aymer, after one glance at the city lights before him, slid down first, and let himself into the water gently. He adjusted the load on his back on the float: then shook the line as a signal to Fulk, who came halfway down well, but his nervous excitement overcame him, and he rather fell than slid the remainder, reaching the water with a splash. His head did not go under, but they feared lest any one had heard it. In a few seconds, as all was quiet, Aymer struck out, pushing the float in front and dragging Fulk behind. He had no load to support, but simply to force his way through the water. It was chilly, but not so cold as he had feared. It smelt unpleasant—some chemical works discharged into it. Though a fairly good swimmer, Aymer had a hard struggle to cross the broad canal, and more than once paused to recover his strength. At last they landed on the towing path, and without a moment’s delay got over a low wall into some back garden and changed their clothes, wrapping the wet things round a loose brick from the wall and dropping them in the water. They then made haste along the towing path, Aymer leading, and emerged at a bridge into a broad thoroughfare, gaslit but deserted. “Come on,” whispered Aymer. “There is the station; we shall catch the up 10:15 train to London.” “Is that the station?” said Fulk. “Then here we part. Good-by.” “Part? What do you mean?” “I mean this: that I owe you my liberty—I shall repay you. I shall stay here and watch for your Violet—I am sure she is here.” It was useless arguing with him: Fulk was determined. “I shall easily hide in this great city,” he said. “We shall be on the watch in two places at once—you at Belthrop and World’s End, and I here. Make haste. By-the-by, can you lend me a pound or two? I have no money with me.” Aymer insisted upon dividing the sixty-five pounds he had left. Then they shook hands. “Stay,” said Fulk, “our rendezvous?—Where shall we meet again? Quick!—your train.” “At The Place, World’s End,” said Aymer at a venture, and with one more rapid handshake ran off. He caught his train, and by one in the morning was in London. Poor Fulk, wandering he hardly knew where on the look out for a quiet inn, came suddenly into a crowded street, and amidst a number of carriages evidently waiting. He looked up—it was some theatre or other. There was a large poster announcing that the famous singer Mademoiselle F—o would perform that evening in the Sternhold Hall, and as he read, he heard a loud encore which reached even to the street. “I remember her,” he thought. “I saw her at Vienna the year before I was captured. They said she was this Marese Baskette’s mistress—a splendid creature. I’ve half a mind—I haven’t heard a song for so long—”