lighted face of the clock, like some faded sun. And the strokes rolled
out in swelling waves that made the whole atmosphere feel soundladen.
The chauffeur had opened the door of the car, and was offering his free
hand to help Jenny to step down to the ground.

"Are we _there?_" she asked in a bewildered way, as if she had been
dreaming. "How quick we've been!"

"Yes, miss. Mr. Redington's down the steps. You see them steps. Mr.
Redington's down there in the dinghy. Mind how you go, miss. Hold tight
to the rail...." He closed the door of the car and pointed to the steps.

The dinghy! Those stone steps to the black water! Jenny was shaken by a
shudder. The horror of the water which had come upon her earlier in the
evening returned more intensely. The strokes of the clock were the same,
the darkness, the feeling of the sinister water rolling there beneath
the bridge, resistlessly carrying its burdens to the sea. If Keith had
not been there she would have turned and run swiftly away, overcome by
her fear. She timidly reached the steps, and stopped, peering down
through the dimness. She put her foot forward so that it hung dubiously
beyond the edge of the pavement.

"What a coward!" she thought, violently, with self-contempt. It drove
her forward. And at that moment she could see below, at the edge of the
lapping water, the outline of a small boat and of a man who sat in it
using the oars against the force of the current so as to keep the boat
always near the steps. She heard a dear familiar voice call out with a
perfect shout of welcome:

"Jenny! Good girl! How are you! Come along; be careful how you come.