always fixed in that one fantastic shape—­as if those wild legs were a grotesque graven ornament of the bridge itself, in the manner of a gargoyle.  At the moment he merely passed, staring, down the stream.  He could see no flying figure on the bridge, so it must have already fled; but he was half conscious of some faint significance in the fact that among the trees round the bridgehead opposite the wall he saw a lamp-post; and, beside the lamp-post, the broad blue back of an unconscious policeman.

Even before reaching the shrine of his political pilgrimage he had many other things to think of besides the odd incident of the bridge; for the management of a boat by a solitary man was not always easy even on such a solitary stream.  And indeed it was only by an unforeseen accident that he was solitary.  The boat had been purchased and the whole expedition planned in conjunction with a friend, who had at the last moment been forced to alter all his arrangements.  Harold March was to have traveled with his friend Horne Fisher on that inland voyage to Willowood Place, where the Prime Minister was a guest at the moment.  More and more people were hearing of Harold March, for his striking political articles were opening to him the doors of larger and larger salons; but he had never met the Prime Minister yet.  Scarcely anybody among the general public had ever heard of Horne Fisher; but he had known the Prime Minister all his life.  For these reasons, had the two taken the projected journey together, March might have been slightly disposed to hasten it and Fisher vaguely content to lengthen it out.  For Fisher was one of those people who are born knowing the Prime Minister.  The knowledge seemed to have no very exhilarant effect, and in his case bore some resemblance to being born tired.  But he was distinctly annoyed to receive, just as he was doing a little light packing of fishing tackle and cigars for the journey, a telegram from Willowood asking him to come down at once by train, as the Prime Minister had to leave that night.  Fisher knew that his friend the journalist could not possibly start till the next day, and he liked his friend the journalist, and had looked forward to a few days on the river.  He did not particularly like or dislike the Prime Minister, but he intensely disliked the alternative of a few hours in the train.  Nevertheless, he accepted Prime Ministers as he accepted railway trains—­as part of a system which he, at least, was not the revolutionist sent on earth to destroy.  So he telephoned to March, asking him, with many apologetic curses and faint damns, to take the boat down the river as arranged, that they might meet at Willowood by the time settled; then he went outside and hailed a taxicab to take him to the railway station.  There he paused at the bookstall to add to his light luggage a number of cheap murder stories, which he read with great pleasure, and without any premonition that he was about to walk into as strange a story in real life.