A faint cooling breeze drifted across the river and sent little eddies and ripples chasing each other over its surface.

As he slowly dismantled his rod his eyes kept on wandering upstream to where the half-hidden chimneys of Otter’s Holt peered out through their surrounding foliage. The island, which was perhaps a quarter of an acre in extent, lay about a hundred yards above the spot where he was moored. On one side of it was the weir, while on the other, broken by the narrow entrance to a small backwater, the main stream flowed past in a wide curving sweep. Slightly above this point stood a solitary wooden building with the words “Boats on Hire” painted along its roof.

It was from here, apparently, that a visitor wishing to cross over would be most likely to embark, but during the four hours which had slipped by since his arrival on the scene no such encouraging incident had occurred to break the monotony. Indeed, for all the traces of life it exhibited the island might have been deserted. In spite of the fact that he had been keeping it under careful and consistent observation he had learned absolutely nothing. Even the unprepossessing “gardener,” to whom Mr. Martin had alluded, had obstinately declined to put in an appearance.

Feeling a shade disappointed at the negative results of his opening vigil, he uprooted the two poles which had been keeping him in position and began to punt across slowly in the direction of the backwater. He felt that his activities as a fisherman had already lasted long enough, and that for the time being it would be wiser to retire from the immediate neighbourhood. For all he knew, unseen eyes might be secretly observing his proceedings. To continue hanging around after dusk would be bound to arouse suspicion; and since he had no desire to attract more attention to himself than he could possibly avoid, a change of tactics appeared eminently desirable. Besides, regarding it purely from a personal point of view, he was badly in need of a drink. The thought of sitting in a bar with a large tankard of beer in front of him appealed strongly to his imagination, while it also possessed the additional advantage of being part and parcel of his prearranged campaign. After all, the sooner he got in touch with the local gossip the more likely he was to overhear something useful. For the moment, duty and inclination seemed to be pointing towards the same goal; a comforting and convenient arrangement that is too often foreign to their custom.

Passing into the backwater under a small iron bridge, he pushed his way along its winding course, ducking his head now and then to avoid one of the numerous overhanging branches. For about a couple of hundred yards the banks on either side were lined by a thick growth of bushes and willows, and then, as he rounded a bend into a slightly broader stretch, the back garden of the Red Lion made its sudden and welcome appearance.

It consisted of a narrow strip of lawn with an ancient cedar tree in the centre and a few weather-stained chairs and tables dotted about at discreet intervals. The borders were filled with a ragged array of dahlias and chrysanthemums, and at this late hour in the season the whole place presented a forlorn and somewhat neglected-looking aspect. Such encouragement as it offered to prospective customers was contained in the almost illegible notice affixed to a rustic arch which surmounted the landing-stage. So far as it could be deciphered it ran as follows:

YE OLD RED LYON INNE
Fully licensed
Teas Lunches Dinners First-Class Accommodation

There were several boats lying off the steps, and steering neatly in amongst them, Owen hitched up his punt and scrambled ashore. As he did so a small boy, who had emerged from some private hiding-place, came hurrying towards him with an air of hopeful expectancy.

“Look after your things, sir?”

“Who are you?” inquired Owen.

“Ernie Giles, sir. I lives ’ere. My Dad,’e works for Mr. Mellon.”

“Very well, here’s sixpence. I’m going inside to have a drink and a bite of grub. If everything’s safe and sound when I come back I’ll make it a bob.”

“Thankye, sir.” Ernie pocketed the coin and squared his shoulders. “Don’t you worry yerself, sir,” he added confidently. “No one won’t pinch nothin’, not with me around.”

Leaving his new-found friend in charge, Owen lit a cigar-ette and strolled leisurely up the lawn. The back of the inn was screened by a long, creeper-covered veranda, at one end of which was a partly open door with the word “Saloon” engraved upon its glass panel. Stepping through, he found himself in a small, snug, low-ceilinged bar, where a stout, rubicund-faced man who was standing behind the counter polishing a tankard looked up with a genial smile.

“Ah, good evenin’, sir. Must ’ave come in through the backwater, didn’t you? Thought I heard young Ernie speakin’ to someone.”

“Been fishing down below the weir,” explained Owen.