I remember now that, in a childish way, I tried to escape this persistent brilliance that still clung to my boat’s side with every stroke I took; that somehow a dull triumph possessed me when for a moment I slipped beneath the shadow of a bridge, or crept behind a black and silent hull.  All this I can recall now, and wonder at the trivial nature of the thought.  Then I caught the scent of white rose, and fell to wondering how it came there.  There had been the same scent in the drawing-room that afternoon, I remembered, when Claire had said good-bye for ever.  How had it followed me?  After this I set myself aimlessly to count the lights that passed, lost count, and began again.  And all the time the white glimmer hung at my side.

I was still wrapped up in my cloak, though the cape was flung back to give my arms free play.  Rowing so, I must quickly have been warm; but I felt it no more than I had felt the cold as I walked home from the theatre.  My boat was creeping along the Middlesex shore, by the old Temple stairs, and presently threaded its way through more crowded channels, and passed under the blackness of London Bridge.

How far below this I went, I cannot clearly call to mind; of distance, as well as of time, I had lost all calculation.  I recollect making a circuit to avoid the press of boats waiting for the early dawn by Billingsgate Market, and have a vision of the White Tower against the heavens.  But my next impression of any clearness is that of rowing under the shadow of a black three-masted schooner that lay close under shore, tilted over on her port side in the low water.  As my dingey floated out again from beneath the overhanging hull, I looked up and saw the words, Water-Witch, painted in white upon her pitch-dark bows.

By this time I was among the tiers of shipping.  I looked back over my shoulder, and saw their countless masts looming up as far as eye could see in the dim light, and their lamps flickering and wavering upon the water.  I rowed about a score of strokes, and then stopped.  Why go further?  This place would serve as well as any other.  No one was likely to hear my splash as I went overboard, and even if heard it would not be interpreted.  I was still near enough to the Middlesex bank to be out of the broad moonlight that lit up the middle of the river.  I took the tin box out of my cloak and stowed it for a moment in the stern.  I would sink it with the key before I flung myself in.  So, pulling the key out of the other pocket, I took off the cloak, then my dress-coat and waistcoat, folded them carefully, and placed them on the stern seat.  This done, I slipped the key into one pocket of my trousers, my watch and chain into the other.  I would do all quietly and in order, I reflected.  I was silently kicking off my shoes, when a thought struck me.  In my last struggles it was possible that the desire of life would master me, and almost unconsciously I might take to swimming.  In the old days at Lizard Town swimming had been as natural to me as walking, and I had no doubt that as soon as in the water I should begin to strike out.  Could I count upon determination enough to withhold my arms and let myself slowly drown?