To the waterman's unreserved statement of facts and suspicions, Captain Ryecroft makes no rejoinder. The last are in exact consonance with his own already conceived, the first alone new to him.

And on the first he now fixes his thoughts, directing them to that particular one of a boat being in the neighbourhood of the Llangorren grounds about the time he was leaving them. For it, too, has a certain correspondence with something on the same night observed by himself—a circumstance he had forgotten, or ceased to think of, but now recalled with vivid distinctness. All the more as he listens to the conjectures of Wingate, about three men having been in that boat, and whom he supposed them to be.

The number is significant as corresponding with what occurred to himself. The time as well, since, but a few hours before, he also had his attention drawn to a boat, under circumstances somewhat mysterious. The place was different; for all not to contradict the supposition of the waterman, rather confirming it.

On his way to the Court, his black dress kerseymere protected by india-rubber overalls, Ryecroft, as known, had ridden to Wingate's house, and was thence rowed to Llangorren. His going to a ball by boat, instead of carriage or hotel hackney, was not for the sake of convenience, nor yet due to eccentricity. The prospect of a private interview with his betrothed at parting, as on former occasions expected to be pleasant, was his ruling motive for this arrangement. Besides, his calls at the Court were usually made in the same way, his custom being to ride as far as the Wingate cottage, leave his roadster there, and thence take the skiff. Between his town and the waterman's house, there is a choice of routes, the main country road keeping well away from the river, and a narrower one, which follows the trend of the stream along its edge, where practicable, but also here and there thrown off by meadows subject to inundations, or steep spurs of the parallel ridges. This, an ancient trackway now little used, was the route Captain Ryecroft had been accustomed to take on his way to Wingate's cottage, not from its being shorter or better, but for the scenery, which, far excelling that of the other, equals any upon the Wyeside. In addition, the very loneliness of the road had its charm for him, since only at rare intervals is a house seen by its side, and rarer still living creature encountered upon it. Even where it passes Rugg's Ferry, there intersecting the ford road, the same solitude characterizes it. For this quaint conglomeration of dwellings is on the opposite side of the stream—all save the chapel and the priest's house, standing some distance back from the bank, and screened by a spinney of trees.

With the topography of this place he is quite familiar; and now to-night it is vividly recalled to his mind by what the waterman has told him. For on that other night, so sadly remembered, as he was riding past Rugg's, he saw the boat thus brought back to his recollection. He had got a little beyond the crossing of the Ford road, where it leads out from the river—himself on the other going downwards—when his attention was drawn to a dark object against the bank on the opposite side of the stream. The sky at the time moonless, he might not have noticed it, but for other dark objects seen in motion beside it, the thing itself being stationary. Despite the obscurity, he could make them out to be men busied around a boat. Something in their movements, which seemed made in a stealthy manner—too cautious for honesty—prompted him to pull up, and sit in his saddle observing them. He had himself no need to take precautions for concealment, the road at this point passing under old oaks, whose umbrageous branches, arcading over, shadowed the causeway, making it dark around as the interior of a cavern.

Nor was he called upon to stay long there—only a few seconds after drawing bridle—just time enough for him to count the men, and see there were three of them, when they stepped over the sides of the boat, pushed her out from the bank, and rowed off down the river.

Even then he fancied there was something surreptitious in their proceedings; for the oars, instead of rattling in their rowlocks, made scarce any noise, while their dip was barely audible, though so near.

Soon both boat and those on board were out of his sight, and the slight sound made by them beyond his hearing. Had the road kept along the river's bank, he would have followed, and further watched them; but just below Rugg's it is carried off across a ridge, with steep pitch, and while ascending this he ceased to think of them.

He might not have thought of them at all, had they made their embarkation at the ordinary landing-place, by the ford and ferry. There such a sight would have been nothing unusual, nor a circumstance to excite curiosity. But the boat, when he first observed it, was lying below, up against the bank by the chapel ground, across which the men must have come.

Recalling all this, with what Jack Wingate had just told him, connecting events together, and making comparison of time, place, and other circumstances, he thus interrogatively reflects:

"Might not that boat have been the same whose oars Jack heard down below? and the men in it those whose names he had mentioned? Three of them—that at least in curious correspondence? But the time? About nine, or a little after, as I passed Rugg's Ferry. That appears too early for the after event? No; they may have had other arrangements to make before proceeding to their murderous work. Odd, though, their knowing she would be out there. But they need not have known that—likely did not. More like they meant to enter the house after every one had gone away, and there do the deed. A night different from the common, everything in confusion; the servants sleeping sounder than usual, from having indulged in drink—some of them overcome by it, as I saw myself before leaving. Yes; it's quite probable the assassins took all that into consideration—surprised, no doubt, to find their victim so convenient—in fact, as if she had come forth to receive them. Poor girl!"

All this chapter of conjectures has been to himself, and in sombre silence, at length broken by the voice of his boatman, saying,—

"You've come afoot, Captain; an' it be a longish walk to the town, most o' the road muddy. Ye'll let me row you up the river—leastways, for a couple o' miles further; then ye can take the footpath through Powell's meadows."

Roused as from a reverie, the Captain, looking out, sees they are nearly up to the boatman's cottage, which accounts for the proposal thus made. After a little reflection, he says in reply,—

"Well, Jack, if it wasn't that I dislike overworking you——"

"Don't mention it!" interrupts Jack. "I'll be only too pleased to take you all the way to the town itself, if ye say the word. It a'nt so late yet, but to leave me plenty of time. Besides, I've got to go up to the ferry, anyhow, to get some grocery for mother. I may as well do it in the boat—'deed better than dragglin' along them roughish roads."

"In that case I consent. But you must let me take the oars."

"No, Captain; I'd prefer workin' 'em myself, if it be all the same to you."

The Captain does not insist, for in truth he would rather remain at the tiller. Not because he is indisposed for a spell of pulling, nor is it from disinclination to walk, that he has so readily accepted the waterman's offer. After reflecting, he would have asked the favour so courteously extended. And for a reason having nothing to do with convenience, or the fear of fatigue; but a purpose which has just shaped itself in his thoughts, suggested by the mention of the ferry.

It is that he may consider this—be left free to follow the train of conjecture which the incident has interrupted—he yields to the boatman's wishes, and keeps his seat in the stern.

By a fresh spurt the Mary is carried beyond her mooring place—as she passes it her owner for an instant feathering his oars and holding up his hat. It is a signal to one he sees there, standing outside in the moonlight—his mother.