“It’s all right,” said somebody, very far away, in the voice of Stephen Byrne⁠—a hoarse and furtive voice.

John Egerton picked up his burden, and another staggering stage was accomplished into the conservatory.

It was dusk now, but a large moon was up, and thin streams of silver filtered through the opaque roof and the crowded vine-leaves on to the long bundle on the floor. It was too light, Stephen thought, for this kind of work.

When they had halted he said, “Wait a minute, John⁠—I’ll go and see if the coast is clear.” He went quickly down the stone steps into the tiny garden. The long, rich grass of Stephen’s “lawn” was drenched and glistening with dew. There was the heavy scent of something in the next-door garden, and over all a hot, intolerable stillness. Stephen became suddenly oppressed with the sense of guilt. Instinctively he stepped on to the wet grass and rustled softly through it to the river, his silk socks sponging up the dew.