“Don’t let him escape, Petrie!”

Never lifting my eyes from the water, I waved my hand reassuringly.  But still the dacoit did not rise.  I searched the surface in all directions as far as my eyes could reach; but no swimmer showed above it.  Then it was that I concluded he had dived too deeply, become entangled in the weeds and was drowned.  With a final glance to right and left and some feeling of awe at this sudden tragedy—­ this grim going out of a life at glorious noonday—­I turned away.  Smith had the woman securely; but I had not taken five steps towards him when a faint splash behind warned me.  Instinctively I ducked.  From whence that saving instinct arose I cannot surmise, but to it I owed my life.  For as I rapidly lowered my head, something hummed past me, something that flew out over the grass bank, and fell with a jangle upon the dusty roadside.  A knife!

I turned and bounded back to the river’s brink.  I heard a faint cry behind me, which could only have come from the gypsy woman.  Nothing disturbed the calm surface of the water.  The reach was lonely of rowers.  Out by the farther bank a girl was poling a punt along, and her white-clad figure was the only living thing that moved upon the river within the range of the most expert knife-thrower.

To say that I was nonplused is to say less than the truth; I was amazed.  That it was the dacoit who had shown me this murderous attention I could not doubt.  But where in Heaven’s name was he?  He could not humanly have remained below water for so long; yet he certainly was not above, was not upon the surface, concealed amongst the reeds, nor hidden upon the bank.

There, in the bright sunshine, a consciousness of the eerie possessed me.  It was with an uncomfortable feeling that my phantom foe might be aiming a second knife at my back that I turned away and hastened towards Smith.  My fearful expectations were not realized, and I picked up the little weapon which had so narrowly missed me, and with it in my hand rejoined my friend.

He was standing with one arm closely clasped about the apparently exhausted woman, and her dark eyes were fixed upon him with an extraordinary expression.

“What does it mean, Smith?” I began.

But he interrupted me.

“Where is the dacoit?” he demanded rapidly.

“Since he seemingly possesses the attributes of a fish,”
I replied, “I cannot pretend to say.”

The gypsy woman lifted her eyes to mine and laughed.  Her laughter was musical, not that of such an old hag as Smith held captive; it was familiar, too.

I started and looked closely into the wizened face.

“He’s tricked you,” said Smith, an angry note in his voice. 
“What is that you have in your hand?”

I showed him the knife, and told him how it had come into my possession.

“I know,” he rapped.  “I saw it.  He was in the water not three yards from where you stood.  You must have seen him.  Was there nothing visible?”