Opening his trunk, he took out his
revolver, replaced the discharged shells and stuck it into his
overcoat pocket. Picking up the little package of bank-notes, he
fingered them for a moment and then, moved by an impulse for which
he had no explanation, he not only counted them but quickly stuffed
them into his trousers' pocket. Afterwards he was convinced that
premonition was responsible for this incomprehensible act.
He crossed the ferry with several other people. The moon had broken
through the clouds. Its light upon the cold, sluggish water produced
the effect of polished steel. It reminded him of the grey surface
of an ancient suit of armour. The crossing was slow. He could not
repress a shudder when he looked downstream and saw lights that
seemed to be fixed in the centre of the river. He closed his eyes.
He could not bear to look at the cold, silent water. The soft
splashing against the broad, square bow of the old-fashioned ferry
served to increase his nervousness. The horrid fancy struck him
that Rosabel Vick was out there ahead clawing at the slimy timbers
in the vain effort to draw herself out of the water....He wished
to God he had not come.
He was the first person off the ferry when it came to a stop on
the farther side of the river. Ahead of him lay the road through
the narrow belt of trees that lined the bank. He knew that a scant
hundred yards lay between the river and the open road beyond and
yet a vast dread possessed him.
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