KISMET Between Brandon in Suffolk and Thetford in Norfolk runs a quiet river, the Little Ouse, where few boats break the stillness of the water.

On either bank stand whispering beech-trees, and so low is the music of the leaves that the message of Ely's distant bells floats through them on a quiet evening as far as Brandon and beyond it.
Three years after Etta's death, in the glow of an April sunset, a Canadian canoe was making its stealthy way up the river.

The paddle crept in and out so gently, so lazily and peacefully, that the dabchicks and other waterfowl did not cease their chatter of nests and other April matters as the canoe glided by.
So quiet, indeed, was its progress that Karl Steinmetz--suddenly white-headed, as strong old men are apt to find themselves--did not heed its approach.

He was sitting on the bank with a gun, a little rifle, lying on the grass beside him.

He was half-asleep in the enjoyment of a large Havana cigar.