Austin seemed relieved.
“Yes, yes, quite possible,” he said. “But we ought to make sure. Run round, Innes, will you, in the car and find out.”
“Will you see Smith, sir?” asked the butler when Innes had gone.
Austin seemed to awake out of a reverie.
“Yes—oh yes, I suppose so,” he answered. “Yes certainly. Bring him in.”
A small, stout man, with a short brown beard stepped up. He was, he explained, boatman as well as under-gardener, and it was his custom each morning to visit the boathouse, give the boats a run over with a cloth, brush the cushions, and leave everything ready in case a boat might be required during the day. On this morning he had reached the boathouse as usual, and was surprised to find the door unlocked. Entering, he had at once noticed that the water gate connecting the basin in the house with the river was fully open, and then he saw that the Alice, the smallest of the skiffs, was missing. A glance at the rack had shown that the oars and rowlocks had also gone. He had looked round generally, but could not find any other trace of disturbance. He had immediately come up to the house to inform Sir William.
Austin Ponson had listened carefully to the man’s statement, and he now asked a question:
“You say you were surprised to find the boathouse door unlocked. I have been at the boathouse scores of times, and I never knew it to be locked. Why should it have been locked then?”
“I lock it, sir,” the man replied, “every night at dusk. Every morning I open it, and it stays open through the day.”
“And did you lock it last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“About what time?”
“About or , I should think.”
“Who else has a key?”
“No one but Sir William, sir.”
Austin turned to the butler.
“Do you know where he keeps this key?”
“In the drawer of his writing table, sir.”
“See if you can find it now.”
In a few moments Parkes returned. Several keys, each attached to its neatly lettered block of wood, were in the drawer, but that of the boathouse door was missing.
“That will do, thank you, Smith,” Austin went on, then, when the man had withdrawn, he turned to the butler. He still seemed nervous and upset.
“It seems pretty clear Sir William has gone out on the river; now what on earth would he do that for? I wish that man would come back from the doctor’s.”
“He won’t be long, sir. Say ten minutes there and ten back, and five to make inquiries. He should be here in five or six minutes.”
In about that time Innes returned. Sir William had not called at Dr. Graham’s.
Austin and Parkes exchanged troubled glances. The same terrible idea which had been in their minds since the discovery of the missing boat was forcing itself to the front.
The River Cranshaw was a broad and sluggish stream at Halford, and for the two miles or so of its course to the point where it passed Luce Manor. But just below Sir William’s grounds there was a curious outcrop of rock, and the waters had cut for themselves a narrow channel down which, when the river was full, they raced at ever increasing speed till they reached the Cranshaw Falls. Here they leaped over a ledge of rock, not very deep—not, in fact, more than four or five feet—but the river bed at the foot, and for some distance downstream, was so full of huge boulders that the waters danced and swirled, and were churned into a mass of foam as great as might have been expected from a fall of five or six times the height. A dangerous place at which there had been more than one accident. On the last occasion, some twenty years earlier, a party of a man and two girls had allowed themselves to drift into the narrow channel, and in spite of their frantic efforts, their boat had been carried over and all were drowned. The bodies, two of them frightfully disfigured, were found in the smooth water below the rapids. As at the present time, there had just been a severe thunderstorm followed by torrential rain over the whole country, the river was in flood, and the fear that a similar fate might have overtaken Sir William was only too reasonable.
For a few moments none of the men spoke. Then Austin, pulling himself together with an effort, said in a low tone, “We must go down the river, I’m afraid. Better bring Smith.”
The four men walked to the boathouse, and then turning downstream, continued their course along the bank. Soon they came to the rocky ground where, from three hundred feet or more in width, the river narrowed in to about sixty. There was a strong fresh, and the water seethed and eddied as its speed increased, while the roar of the fall grew louder.
Just above the fall a two-arched bridge carried a road across the river, a huge rock in midstream parting the current, and bearing the masonry pier. Here the men divided, the butler and Smith crossing to the opposite bank, and Austin and the valet remaining on the Luce Manor side. Then they pushed on till they reached the fall itself.
The river was even higher than they had realised, almost as high as during the winter rains. It went over the ledge in a smoothly-burnished curve, then plunging into the mass of boulders, was broken into a thousand whirling eddies, all seething beneath leaping masses of foam. As the men looked at it their hearts sank. A skilful Canadian lumberman on a raft or in a strong, seaworthy boat might have negotiated the place in safety, but for an elderly business man like Sir William, in a frail skiff, only one end seemed possible.
Slowly they walked on, examining with anxious
