Ann's plan of the way in which Toyner more than any other man could aid
her father was simple enough. He who was known to be in pursuit of
Markham was to take him as a friend through the town at The Mills and
start him on the road at the other side. Markham was little known at The
Mills, and no one would be likely to take the companion of the constable
to be the criminal for whose arrest he had been making so much
agitation; they were to travel at the early hour of dawn when few were
stirring. This plan, with such modifications as his own good sense
suggested, Toyner was willing to adopt.

He started earlier in the evening than she had done, having no
particular desire for secrecy. He told his friends that he was going to
row to The Mills by night, and those who heard him supposed that he had
gained some information concerning Markham that he thought it best to
report. It was a calm night; the smoke of distant burning was still in
the air.

He dropped down the river in the dark hours before the moonrise, and
began to row with strength, as Ann had done, when he reached the placid
water. His boat was light and well built. He could see few yards of dark
water in advance; he could see the dark outline of the trees. The water
was deep; there were no rocks, no hidden banks; he did not make all the
haste he could, but rowed on meditatively--he was always more or less
attracted by solitude. To-night the mechanical exercise, the darkness,
the absolute loneliness, were greater rest to him than sleep would have
been. In a despairing dull sort of way he was praying all the time; his
mind had contracted a habit of prayer, at least if expressing his
thoughts to the divine Being in the belief that they were heard may be
called prayer.