“It’s all right,” Arnold answered.  “Step out.  We cross this meadow on foot.  When we reach the other end, we shall find Sabatini.  Come along.”

They turned toward the river, Starling muttering, now and then, to himself.  In a few minutes they came in sight of the punt.  Sabatini was still there, with his head reclining among the cushions.  He looked up and waved his hand.

“A record, my young friend!” he exclaimed.  “I congratulate you, indeed.  You have been gone exactly fifty-five minutes, and I gave you an hour and a half at the least.  Our friend Starling was glad to see you, I hope?”

“He showed his pleasure,” Arnold remarked dryly, “in a most original manner.  However, here he is.  Shall I take you across now?”

“If you please,” Sabatini agreed.

He sat up and looked at Starling.  The latter hung his head and shook like a guilty schoolboy.

“It was so foolish of you,” Sabatini murmured, “but we’ll talk of that presently.  They were civil to you at the police court, eh?”

“I was never charged,” Starling replied.  “They couldn’t get their evidence together.”

“Still, they asked you questions, no doubt?” Sabatini continued.

“I told them nothing,” Starling replied.  “On my soul and honor, I told them nothing!”

“It was very wise of you,” Sabatini said.  “It might have led to disappointments—­to trouble of many sorts.  So you told them nothing, eh?  That is excellent.  After we have landed, I must hand you over to my valet.  Then we will have a little talk.”

They were in the backwater now, drifting on toward the lawn.  Starling shrank back at the sight of the two women.

“I can’t face it,” he muttered.  “I tell you I have lost my nerve.”

“You have nothing to fear,” Sabatini said quietly.  “There is no one here likely to do you or wish you any harm.”

Fenella came down to the steps to meet them.

“So our prodigal has returned,” she remarked, smiling at Starling.

“We have rescued Mr. Starling from a solitary picnic upon his house-boat,” Sabatini explained, suavely.  “We cannot have our friends cultivating misanthropy.”

Mr. Weatherley, who had returned from the boat-builder’s, half rose from his chair and sat down again, frowning.  He watched the two men cross the lawn towards the house.  Then he turned to Ruth and shook his head.

“I have a great regard for Count Sabatini,” he declared, “a great regard, but there are some of his friends—­very many of them, in fact—­whose presence here I could dispense with.  That man is one of them.  Do you know where he was a few nights ago, Miss Lalonde?”

She shook her head.

“In prison,” Mr. Weatherley said, impressively; “arrested on a serious charge.”

Her eyes asked him a question.  He stooped towards her and lowered his voice.

“Murder,” he whispered; “the murder of Mr. Rosario!”