“There was someone watching on the Bridge⁠ ⁠… two men.”

Stephen sighed with a profound weariness.

“It can’t be helped,” he said.

A dreadful paralysis seemed to have succeeded the heavy strain. He looked as the men used to look after a long spell in the line, sitting at last in a dingy billet⁠—played out.

John Egerton took the sculls and turned the boat round. The boat moved stiffly, with a steady gurgle at the bows; the noiseless tide swung violently by; the oars creaked complainingly.

“This tide ⁠ ⁠…” muttered John.

Stephen Byrne raised his head. “The tide’s going out,” he said stupidly.