When they had fetched her luggage from the house in the little courtyard, and he had seen her off at the station, he hurried down to Folly Bridge and along the tow-path. Staring across the river to the Calvary Barge, he could see someone moving. He called. A punt put out; when it came alongside, the man looked up through the darkness.
“Can’t take you across to-night, sir. Wouldn’t be no use; the meadow-gates is shut.”
“It’s not that,” said Peter; “I only wanted to find out if Mr. Hardcastle’s come back.”
The man scratched his head. “Not yet, sir. Reckon he must ‘a left ‘is punt higher up—by Magdalen Bridge, perhaps.”
“Perhaps. Well, it doesn’t matter.”
He strolled away thoughtfully.
CHAPTER XL—MR. GRACE GOES ON THE BUST
Mr. Grace rose by stealth. Dawn had not yet broken. He groped his way into his clothes in the darkness; he did not dare to light the gas. Clutching his boots against his breast, with ridiculous caution for so fat a man, he tiptoed down the stairs. In the passage he listened and looked up, half expecting to see a head in curl-papers surveying him from across the banisters. He heaved a sigh of relief. That fine bass sound, like a trombone thrust out violently to its full length, was his son-in-law, the ex-policeman; those flute-like notes, tremulous and heart-stirrings were his daughter’s musical contributions from dreamland. All was well. He had not roused them.