-path to
the village, the sun was just visible through the haze, giving every
hope of a lovely day.

With mingled feelings of dread and hope I approached the scattered
houses of the little hamlet, half fearing to see groups of men by the
river-side searching for some gruesome object, and, again, when all
seemed still and peaceful, fearing that the absence of movement might
mean the very thing I dreaded--namely, that the catastrophe had
happened, and no one any the wiser.

There lay the wherry, without sight or sound of any living person on
board; no one was moving in the little straggling street; not a dog
barked.

I went straight to the old inn, which stood about a hundred yards from
the landing-stage, opposite the wherry's anchorage, and knocked loudly
at the door. No one answered, so I tried the latch, the door opened to
my hand, and I walked into the brick-floored bar, and at first thought
it was empty.

Then I heard a slight movement and the sound of a yawn, and, looking
towards the large settle by the side of the hearth, saw my old
acquaintance, the innkeeper, evidently aroused by my knocking from a
sound sleep, rubbing his eyes and stiffly getting to his feet.

Much astonished he looked when he saw who his visitor was, as he did not
know I had come down to the yacht, and certainly was not accustomed to
such early rising on my part.

His first words gave me a cold feeling of apprehension, for on
recognising me he said--

"Oh, sir, I am glad you are here; perhaps you will be able to help us in
this dreadful business."

"What dreadful business?" I said, sharply enough, for I feared his
answer, and dared not ask a more direct question, for the thought of
the sweet girl I had left behind in the _Thelma_, and the news it
seemed I was to take back to her, was almost too much for me.

"Dear, dear, haven't you heard, sir?" went on the old man, thoroughly
awake now in his eagerness to impart the news. "There's that poor, dear
Miss Burfield, the sweetest young lady as ever I knew, gone floating
down the river last night in the fog all alone, and goodness knows what
has become of her, poor dear, by now--and her young brother, too, wet
through as he was, gone off with the gentleman from yonder wherry in a
boat to look for her, hours ago--and a poor chance of finding her, _I_
say, till the fog blows off, even if they don't lose themselves as well
as her. And the poor old squire, too, he be in a dreadful way, and
s