"Naturally," Duncombe assented. "I still don't think he'd have come to any harm unless he bungled his dive, but I'm glad, all the same, that you noticed the rocks."
That marked the end of the incidents worthy of note connected with the picnic, except that Arthur and Ella stayed away for over an hour, and that when they returned she was clinging to his arm with an almost protective air. That night, for the first time, not a single member from the Grange turned up at our performance.
Somehow or other, when I started for my customary early morning walk on the following day, I knew that there was tragedy in the air. A strange mist, presage of storm and heat, hung like an oppressive curtain over the land and stretched out seawards. I almost regretted, as I stood at the end of the little jetty, that I had not departed from my usual custom and bathed. The thought made me look back towards the shore. Duncombe, in his dressing gown, had just left the gardens of the Grange and was descending the shingle to the sands. I watched him throw off his gown and wade into the water. Presently he turned on his side and began swimming slowly out. Watching him, I felt more than ever inclined to go and fetch my own bathing clothes. Then, as I hesitated, I noticed Arthur, following through the Grange gardens, scramble down the shingle, throw off his dressing gown and also plunge into the sea. Something a little furtive about the manner in which he made his way across the lawn, keeping always to the side of the hedge as though to escape observation, and his subsequent almost crawling progress along the shingle, puzzled me. I had been down here many mornings, but I had never seen Arthur bathing before. He was in the water now, and swimming out with long, powerful strokes towards Duncombe.
Whilst Arthur was still almost undistinguishable in the sea, and Duncombe was lying lazily on his back, as yet unconscious of his pupil's approach, I began to feel my first misgivings. There was something unnatural in the very atmosphere that morning, the sulphurous gloom, the entire absence of sunshine, the still, oily water. I found myself straining my eyes to catch a nearer glimpse of the boy's face, asking myself all the time why he had chosen this particular morning to bathe for the first time before breakfast. Nearer and nearer he came. He passed me within a matter of fifty yards, but he took no notice of my shout of greeting. Then, as he rolled from side to side, I caught a glimpse of his face. He seemed to be swimming in entire unconsciousness of any physical effort. His chin was a little protruded, his eyes were fixed in an unnatural stare upon the spot where Duncombe lay floating. For a moment or two I felt a queer sensation of helplessness. I called out again, and I knew this time, although I would not acknowledge it to myself, that my cry was meant to be a warning to Duncombe. He heard me, turned over on his side, and to my horror began to swim away from the approaching form, to swim away like a man in fear.
I really did all that a man could do. Attached by a rope to the end of the jetty were several rowing boats. I unfastened one, clambered down some steps and jumped into it. As I swung it round, I was just in time to see the boy alter his pace a little, as though to intercept Duncombe, who had made for the jetty. Duncombe, seeing himself cut off, hesitated. I held up my hand and shouted.
"Hullo, there!" I bawled. "Hullo! Duncombe, I'm coming to take you in."
Arthur took not the slightest notice of me. He was now within a yard or so of Duncombe, and he suddenly seemed to raise himself from the water. I had no doubt whatever then but that this was tragedy. His mouth was opened, and his rather prominent teeth showed in a wholly animal fashion. His eyes seemed like specks of fire. He was by the side of Duncombe now, and from where I was I can only say that it seemed to me as though he sprang at him just as a sea cat might have done, if such a creature had ever existed. His arms went round the other man's neck, his legs around his loins. Then for the first time Duncombe cried out, a horrible cry, the cry of a man face to face with a hideous death, a cry which died away only as the water filled his mouth. Very slowly, Duncombe struggling in the other's pitiless clasp like a weakling in the grip of an octopus, the two bodies disappeared. I rowed about for more than half an hour without seeing a sign of either. They were washed up two days later.
The supper at a Midland Hotel, where our chief bade us meet him a few evenings later, was one of the least festive of all our meetings. Our depression was so noticeable that he presently commented upon it.
"For whom this sorrow?" he enquired coldly. "For the tutor or his charge?"