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 boathouses, a dark huddle of boats clinging to the rafts in front of them. The boathouses 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?”