Oliver shrugged his shoulders, and without further ado, sat down to write letters.
After a couple of hours’ labour, he looked at the time. Then he called aloud his wife’s name. Then he searched the bungalow. Finally, he strode to the foot of the lawn; in the well of the boat, a curve of obstinate back denoted that Stuart, since their return home, had been absorbed by a trifling defect of leakage, while Peter reluctantly held a candle to him.
“Can I speak to you, Heron?”
“One moment,” in smothered tones.
Oliver waited ten, patiently. Then Peter said, “Come up, Stuart!” and blew out the candle. Whereat, dirty and tousled, he arose from the depths, and was exceeding wrathful.
“What did you want to do that for?”
“Your pal asked to speak to you.”
“My wife’s gone,” explained Oliver in bewildered tones.
And Stuart sat down suddenly and exclaimed: “Good Lord! Wild Duck!”