“We’ll all four go for a walk on the quay on Sunday afternoon,” said Mr. Turnbull, at last.

“On the chance?” inquired his staring friend.

“On the chance,” assented the other; “it’s just possible Daly might fall in.”

“He might if we walked up and down five million times,” said Blundell, unpleasantly.

“He might if we walked up and down three or four times,” said Mr. Turnbull, “especially if you happened to stumble.”

“I never stumble,” said the matter-of-fact Mr. Blundell.  “I don’t know anybody more sure-footed than I am.”

“Or thick-headed,” added the exasperated Mr. Turnbull.

Mr. Blundell regarded him patiently; he had a strong suspicion that his friend had been drinking.

“Stumbling,” said Mr. Turnbull, conquering his annoyance with an effort “stumbling is a thing that might happen to anybody.  You trip your foot against a stone and lurch up against Daly; he tumbles overboard, and you off with your jacket and dive in off the quay after him.  He can’t swim a stroke.”

Mr. Blundell caught his breath and gazed at him in speechless amaze.

“There’s sure to be several people on the quay if it’s a fine afternoon,” continued his instructor.  “You’ll have half Dunchurch round you, praising you and patting you on the back—­all in front of Venia, mind you.  It’ll be put in all the papers and you’ll get a medal.”

“And suppose we are both drowned?” said Mr. Blundell, soberly.

“Drowned?  Fiddlesticks !” said Mr. Turnbull.  “However, please yourself.  If you’re afraid——­”

“I’ll do it,” said Blundell, decidedly.

“And mind,” said the other, “don’t do it as if it’s as easy as kissing your fingers; be half-drowned yourself, or at least pretend to be.  And when you’re on the quay take your time about coming round.  Be longer than Daly is; you don’t want him to get all the pity.”

“All right,” said the other.

“After a time you can open your eyes,” went on his instructor; “then, if I were you, I should say, ‘Good-bye, Venia,’ and close ’em again.  Work it up affecting, and send messages to your aunts.”

“It sounds all right,” said Blundell.

“It is all right,” said Mr. Turnbull.  “That’s just the bare idea I’ve given you.  It’s for you to improve upon it.  You’ve got two days to think about it.”

Mr. Blundell thanked him, and for the next two days thought of little else.  Being a careful man he made his will, and it was in a comparatively cheerful frame of mind that he made his way on Sunday afternoon to Mr. Turnbull’s.

The sergeant was already there conversing in low tones with Venia by the window, while Mr. Turnbull, sitting opposite in an oaken armchair, regarded him with an expression which would have shocked Iago.

“We were just thinking of having a blow down by the water,” he said, as Blundell entered.