CHAPTER XIV.
THE FINDING OF THE BODY.
Scared by the fearful intensity of the storm, all the people flocked away from Longbridge regatta, those who could manage to find room there hurrying in to the single inn the place possessed, while, of those who could not, some invaded the houseboats along the bank, and others, more bold, and in reality more wise, made the best of a bad business and started for home. Among these last were Ralph and Gwendolen. He wrapped her up as well as circumstances allowed, and then, cramming his cap upon his head and seizing his punt pole, began to work for all he was worth. Gwendolen did not speak. She was not a little frightened by the lightning, which appeared to flash backwards and forwards between the earth and sky, and there seemed every chance that the racing punt in which they were would be swamped; not that she could have got much wetter if it were; the rain was thrashing the river and flooding the punt and she was already drenched to the skin, but, at any rate, she was speeding towards shelter and dry clothes.
Behind her Ralph was straining every nerve. His thin cashmere shirt clinging damply to him showed every muscle on his chest and shoulders, and his arms, bare to the elbows, shone with the wet, the sinews standing out like cords. He, too, was nervous on her account, and breathed a prayer of gratitude as after each blinding shaft of lightning he found her still unhurt. With set jaws and stern eyes he used all his skill and strength, taking advantage of his thorough knowledge of the river to find the best course for the punt, and listening with a grim satisfaction to the water slapping underneath his feet.
He must have covered the three miles from Longbridge in record time, and of the crowd of boats that hurried down the stream but few succeeded in outstripping him. As he came to the Manor House he shot the punt dexterously alongside of his houseboat, and, jumping on to it, helped Gwendolen to alight.
"Don't be afraid, dear," he shouted, making himself heard with difficulty against a crashing peal of thunder; "run home and change your things at once."
"And you?" she called back to him.
"I will take the punt into the boathouse and wait there. I have plenty of dry things in the dressing-room. I'll change and come up when the storm is over."
He handed her down the gangway, and stood for a moment watching her as she sped across the lawn. Once at The Grange he knew she would be all right; a fond mother and devoted servants would have prepared a cheerful fire and warm garments for her as soon as they saw the persistency of the rain, and afternoon tea would soon restore her equanimity. Then he got back into the punt and took it round the bend into the creek.
He stepped ashore and, laying the soaked cushions under the shelter of the verandah, tipped up the punt to empty it of the water it had shipped, drew it up into the boat-house, and went into the dressing-room. It was a well-appointed place, with every convenience for men who take their boating seriously. In one corner stood a shower bath, and against it a full-size bath supplied with hot water by a lightning geyser. Divesting himself of his dripping flannels, he lighted the lamp in the geyser and employed the few minutes intervening before it should get warm by rubbing himself down. Then he had a bath, followed by a cold douche, and again rubbed himself with rough towels until he glowed with warmth. From a big press in another corner he took a clean shirt and socks and a spotless suit of flannels, and, finally, feeling splendidly fit and comfortable, turned towards the inner room, meaning to have a cigarette and some spirits, and wait there until the fury of the tempest should abate.
"Suppose Sir Geoffrey was here when the storm broke," he thought, as he saw the open windows, "and thought he would be safer in the house. It was careless of him not to shut the windows; those curtains are simply drenched!"