“Hold on to my arm, Fan!” said Swinton to his helpless better half as soon as the cabman was out of hearing. “Lean upon me. I’ll keep you up. So! Now, come along!”
Fan made no reply. The alcohol overpowered her—now more than ever. She was too tipsy to talk, even to walk; and her husband had to support her whole weight, almost to drag her along. She was quite unconscious whither. But Swinton knew.
It was not along South Bank; they had passed the entrance of that quiet thoroughfare, and were proceeding up the Park Road!
And why? He also knew why.
Under the Park Road passes the Regent’s Canal, spanned by the bridge already spoken of. You would only know you were crossing the canal by observing a break in the shrubbery. This opens westward. On the east side of the road is the park wall rising high overhead, and shadowed by tall trees.
Looking towards Paddington, you see an open list, caused by the canal and its tow-path. The water yawns far below your feet, on both sides draped with evergreens; and foot-passengers along the Park Road are protected from straying over by a parapet scarce breast-high.
Upon this bridge Swinton had arrived. He had stopped and stood close up to the parapet, as if for a rest, his wife still clinging to his arm.
He was resting; but not with the intention to proceed farther. He was recovering strength for an effort so hellish, that, had there been light around them, he and his companion would have appeared as a tableau vivant—the spectacle of a murderer about to despatch his victim! And it would have been a tableau true to the life; for such in reality was his design!
There was no light to shine upon its execution; no eye to see him suddenly let go his wife’s arm, draw the wrapper round her neck, so that the clasp came behind; and then, turning it inside out, fling the skirt over her head!