There was so much virtue in this distinctly and decidedly meaning to have it, that it yielded a little, even while the line was played.

“I told you so,” quoth Mr Inspector, pulling off his outer coat, and leaning well over the stern with a will. “Come!”

It was an awful sort of fishing, but it no more disconcerted Mr Inspector than if he had been fishing in a punt on a summer evening by some soothing weir high up the peaceful river. After certain minutes, and a few directions to the rest to “ease her a little for’ard,” and “now ease her a trifle aft,” and the like, he said composedly, “All clear!” and the line and the boat came free together.

Accepting Lightwood’s proffered hand to help him up, he then put on his coat, and said to Riderhood, “Hand me over those spare sculls of yours, and I’ll pull this in to the nearest stairs. Go ahead you, and keep out in pretty open water, that I mayn’t get fouled again.”

His directions were obeyed, and they pulled ashore directly; two in one boat, two in the other.

“Now,” said Mr Inspector, again to Riderhood, when they were all on the slushy stones; “you have had more practice in this than I have had, and ought to be a better workman at it. Undo the tow-rope, and we’ll help you haul in.”

Riderhood got into the boat accordingly. It appeared as if he had scarcely had a moment’s time to touch the rope or look over the stern, when he came scrambling back, as pale as the morning, and gasped out:

“By the Lord, he’s done me!”

“What do you mean?” they all demanded.

He pointed behind him at the boat, and gasped to that degree that he dropped upon the stones to get his breath.

“Gaffer’s done me. It’s Gaffer!”

They ran to the rope, leaving him gasping there. Soon, the form of the bird of prey, dead some hours, lay stretched upon the shore, with a new blast storming at it and clotting the wet hair with hailstones.

Father, was that you calling me? Father! I thought I heard you call me twice before! Words never to be answered, those, upon the earth-side of the grave. The wind sweeps jeeringly over Father, whips him with the frayed ends of his dress and his jagged hair, tries to turn him where he lies stark on his back, and force his face towards the rising sun, that he may be shamed the more. A lull, and the wind is secret and prying with him; lifts and lets fall a rag; hides palpitating under another rag; runs nimbly through his hair and beard. Then, in a rush, it cruelly taunts him. Father, was that you calling me? Was it you, the voiceless and the dead? Was it you, thus buffeted as you lie here in a heap? Was it you, thus baptized unto Death, with these flying impurities now flung upon your face? Why not speak, Father? Soaking into this filthy ground as you lie here, is your own shape. Did you never see such a shape soaked into your boat? Speak, Father. Speak to us, the winds, the only listeners left you!

“Now see,” said Mr Inspector, after mature deliberation: kneeling on one knee beside the body, when they had stood looking down on the drowned man, as he had many a time looked down on many another man: “the way of it was this. Of course you gentlemen hardly failed to observe that he was towing by the neck and arms.”

They had helped to release the rope, and of course not.