Realisation of the situation held him rigid as a statue.
For a few moments he was plunged into despair.
Then suddenly a thought came to him. There was still a hundredth chance left.
So taking out his pocket-book he scribbled an urgent message to Elma, stating that he was confined in some house beside the river, that the flood was rising, and telling her that he had with him his new wireless receiver, asked her to speak to him, if she chanced to be at Farncombe. He urged her to hasten to his side.
His handwriting was irregular, for his hand trembled as he wrote. But having finished it he took out a frayed but plain envelope, and addressed it: “Urgent: Miss Elma Sandys, Farncombe Towers, near Haslemere.”
Having placed the message inside, he sealed it, and managed, after many futile attempts, to toss it through the barred window.
If it fell upon the face of the waters it might be picked up by some inquisitive person out boating or fishing. Yet he knew not what river was flowing by. He had an idea that it was the Thames, because on the previous day he had seen the brilliant flash of light blue as a kingfisher had sped past the window.
The envelope fluttered from the window—a forlorn hope.
From the crevices in the paving the water was still rising, even though the heavy shower had passed, and the sun was again shining.
Feeling a trifle better and more hopeful, he again took out his wireless receiving-set from the pocket of his discarded raincoat. Old Claribut evidently intended that when the river overwhelmed him, and later he might be found dead, his coat should be with him. Had it been left above there might have been more serious suspicions of foul play.