But as he spoke he paused, and gripping Perry’s arm, turned his ear to listen.

“A boat,” said he.  “A small boat leaving shore.”

It was so.  They could hear the dip of the oars distinctly in the quiet which had followed the departure of the train.  No other sound but that was in the air, and it struck cold upon one old heart.

“It is she!  I’m sure of it,” muttered Gryce.

“The man across the river has warned her—­sent a boat for her, perhaps.  Run down to the point and see if there is anyone there who saw her go.”

Perry slid into the night, and Mr. Gryce stood listening.  The quiet dip of the oars was growing fainter every instant.  The boat was rapidly withdrawing, carrying with it all hope of securing off-hand this desirable witness.

To be sure, there was nothing very serious in this.  He had only to telephone across the river to have the woman detained till he could reach her himself in the early morning.  Yet he felt unaccountably disturbed and anxious.  For all his many experiences and a record which should have made him immune from the ordinary disappointments of life, he had never, or so it seemed to him, felt more thoroughly depressed or weary of the work which had given him occupation for more years than he liked to number, than in the few minutes of solitary waiting, with his face toward the river and the sense of some impending doom settling slowly over his aged heart.

But he was still too much the successful detective to allow his disheartenment to be seen by his admiring subordinate.  As the latter approached, the old man’s countenance brightened, and nothing could have been more deceptive than the calmness he displayed when the fellow reported that he had just been talking to a man who had recognized the boat and the oarsman.  It was the same boat and the same oarsman that had brought them over earlier in the day.  He had made an extra trip at this most unusual hour, for the express purpose of taking this woman back.

“I suppose there is no possibility of your drumming up anyone to row us over in time to catch them?”

“None in the least.  I have inquired.”

“Then follow me into the station.  I have a few messages to send.”

Among these messages was a peremptory one to Sweetwater.

Morning! and an early crossing to the other side.  Here a surprise awaited them.  They found, on inquiry, that the man responsible for Madame’s flitting was not, as they had supposed, the hotel proprietor, but Phil himself, the good-natured, easily-imposed-upon ferryman, on whose sympathies she had worked during their first short passage from one shore to the other.  Perhaps a little money had helped to deepen this impression; one never knows.

But this was not all.  The woman was gone.  She had fled the town on foot before they were able to locate Phil, who had not made shore at his usual place but at some point up the river about which they knew nothing.  When he finally showed up, it was almost daybreak.