Hartley had chosen the less frequented road through the Park, and there was no one in sight when he had stopped to look at the pale sheet of water with its mirrored reproduction of tree and sky.  It held him strangely, and he felt a curious tension of his nerves, as though something was going to happen.  The thought came, as such thoughts do come, out of nowhere in particular, and yet Hartley waited with a sense of discomfort.

When he turned away angry at his own momentary folly, he stooped and picked up a stone and threw it into the motionless beauty of the water, breaking it into a quick splash, marring the clearness, and confusing the straight, low band of gold cloud which broke under the widening circles.  As he stooped, a man had come into sight, walking with a slow, heavy step, his eyes on the ground and his head bent.  He came on with dragging feet and a dull, mechanical walk, the walk of a man who is tired in body and soul.  He did not look at the lake, nor did he even see Hartley, who turned towards him at once with sudden relief.

When Hartley hailed him cheerfully, Joicey stopped dead and looked up, staring at him as though he were an apparition.  He took off his hat and wiped his forehead.

“Where did you spring from, Hartley?” he asked.  “I did not see anyone just now.”  There was more irritation than warmth in his greeting of the police officer.

“I was moonstruck by the edge of that confounded lake.  It was so still that it got on my nerves.”

“Nerves,” said Joicey abruptly.  “There’s too much talk of nerves altogether in these days.”

Joicey, like all large men with loud voices, was able to give an impression of solidity that is very refreshing and reviving at times, but, otherwise, Joicey was not looking entirely himself.  He passed his handkerchief over his face again and laughed dully.

“You’re going to the Club, I suppose?”

“I was going there, but now I’ll join you and have a walk, if I may.  It’s early for the Club yet.”

He turned and walked on beside the Banker, who appeared, if anything, less in the humour for conversation than was usual with him.  They left the lake behind them, now a pallid gleam flecked with wavering light in a circle of deep shadows that reached out from the margin.

“Any news?” asked Hartley without enthusiasm.

“Not that I have heard.”

Silence fell again, and they walked out on to the road.  Pools of afternoon rain still lay here and there in the depressions, but Joicey took no heed of them, and splashed on, staining his white trousers with liquid mud.

“By the way,” he said, clearing his throat as though his words stuck there, “have you heard anything more in connection with the disappearance of that boy you were talking of the other evening?”

Hartley did not reply for a moment, and just as he was about to speak, Mrs. Wilder’s car passed, and Mrs. Wilder leaned forward to smile at the Head of the Police; a small buggy followed with some more friends of Hartley’s, and then another car, and the road was clear again.