not alone. Footsteps rather felt than heard were in front of him. He
pressed forward and peered through the darkness, and finally made out a dim
form some thirty yards away. Idly he followed and soon recognized the
figure as that of a woman hurrying fast. Why a woman should be crossing
Nunsmere Common at four o'clock in the morning passed his power of
conjecture. She was going neither to nor from the doctor, whose house lay
behind the vicarage on the right. All at once her objective became clear to
him. He thought of the splash of the stone. She was making straight for the
pond. He hastened his pace, came up within a few yards of her and then
stopped dead. It was Emmy. He recognized the zibeline toque and coat edged
with the same fur which she often wore. She carried something in her hand,
he could not tell what.

She went on, unconscious of his nearness. He followed her, horror-stricken.
Emmy, a new Ophelia, was about to seek a watery grave for herself and her
love sorrow. Again came the problem which in moments of emergency Septimus
had never learned to solve. What should he do? Across the agony of his mind
shot a feeling of horrible indelicacy in thrusting himself upon a woman at
such a moment. He was half tempted to turn back and leave her to the
sanctity of her grief. But again the splash echoed in his ears and again he
shivered. The water was so black and cold. And what could he say to Zora?
The thought lashed his pace to sudden swiftness and Emmy turned with a
little scream of fear.

"Who are you?"

"It's I, Septimus," he stammered, taking hold of his cap. "For God's sake,
don't do it."

"I shall. Go away. How dare you spy on me?"