For quite a long time, Philip Chater stood, staring helplessly in the direction in which the girl had disappeared. All around him was the silence of the wood, broken only by the call of some night-bird, or by the whisper and rustle of the branches, stirred by a rising wind. So still was it all, that he almost shrieked aloud when a hand was laid softly on his arm.

It was Harry—white-faced, and shaking as though with an ague. He, too, gazed in the direction in which Philip’s eyes were turned, and spoke in a frightened whisper.

“Master Dandy—did she—did she see it?”

The question roused Philip, and put the whole horrible thing more clearly before him than it had appeared even in his imagination. He looked round at the lad, and spoke aloud, and in a tone of recklessness quite out of keeping with the peril of his situation. But all considerations of prudence had been swept aside, at that time; ringing in his ears still, was the startled scream of the woman he loved—(yes—he could confess it to his own heart, now that he had lost her)—before his eyes again was the sight of her running figure, with its horror-struck eyes hidden from his view.

“See it! Of course she saw it. What does it matter? All the world may see it; all the world may know of it. Take your spade away, Harry; you may dig a grave, as deep as the pit of Hell itself, and yet you shall not hide that thing! Why do you tremble? What is there for you to tremble at? Her blood cries out—not against you, but against me; it cries to Heaven—‘See—Dandy Chater killed me—Dandy Chater spilled my blood on God’s fair earth—Dandy Chater——’”

His voice had risen to a cry; the other sprang at him, and clapped a shaking hand over his mouth.

“Stop—stop, for God’s sake!” he cried, huskily. “Are you mad, Master Dandy—are you mad? I tell you it can be hidden; no man knows of it but myself, and Miss Barnshaw will say nothing.”

“I tell you it shall not be hidden,” cried Philip, impatiently. “Why—if any one found you here, digging a grave for it—don’t you understand that suspicion would fall upon you?”

“I don’t care about that, Master Dandy,” he cried. “Better me than you. Let them think what they will, Master Dandy; only get you gone, before the hue and cry is raised.”

“No—I shall not go,” replied Philip, speaking quite calmly, and with a certain hopeless note in his voice which was more impressive than any other utterance could have been. “My dear boy—you can’t understand that it doesn’t matter one little bit—now. It has been a blunder and a muddle, from first to last; Fate has proved too strong for me—I’ll struggle against it no longer.”

“But, Master Dandy,” urged the eager voice—“won’t you let me hide it—at least, for the moment? It will give you time to get away—time to hide.”

“I tell you I shall not hide,” said Philip, quietly. “Come away; I won’t have you mixed up in the business. Why—dear lad”—he dropped his hand, for a moment, on the other’s shoulder—“there’s a sweet girl, whom you love, and who loves you, I’ll be bound, no matter what she may say. Your life is straight before you; you mustn’t throw it away on me.”

He turned, and went in the direction he had come, looking behind him once, to be certain that the other was following. Suddenly remembering that he was like a blind man, groping his way, and having no desire to go near Madge Barnshaw’s house again, he turned abruptly, when he had gone a little way, and motioned to Harry to go before him.

“Lead the way,” he said, in the old tone of authority—“I want to be sure that you don’t go back again.”

Harry passed him, with bent head, and walked in front. And in that order they came to Chater Hall.

Once inside the home which he felt was rightly his, and surrounded by the quiet and luxurious repose of it, the mood of the man changed. He was but young, and life was very, very sweet. Quixotism, self-sacrifice, despair; all these things went to the winds. He was a hunted man, playing a desperate game with chance, with his life for the stake. Figuratively speaking, he had his back to the wall; and he meant to make a fight for it, before he gave in.

Pretence was gone; and he was more lonely even than before. The one being who had seemed to turn to him naturally, avoided him now with horror, as one whose hands were stained with blood. Whatever hope might have been in his mind of escaping was gone; he no longer masqueraded in another man’s garments, and in another man’s place; he was battling for his life.

“Every moment that I stay here makes the danger greater; that thing may be found, and they may be upon me, like bloodhounds, at any moment. I must clear myself; I must, if necessary, undo all that I have done, and declare who I really am. But, if I stop here, I shall be caught like a rat in a trap. I want time to think—time to plan out what I must do——What’s that?”

Some one had knocked softly at the door. After a moment’s pause, Philip Chater, in a nervous voice, called out—“Come in!”

A servant entered, bearing a letter. “I did not know you were in, sir,” he said. “This came while you were out.”

Philip Chater—doubly suspicious now—looked at the man curiously as he took the letter. Was it possible that some one had watched his going out—had even seen Harry going in the direction of the wood first, carrying the spade for his awful work? The spade! It had been left behind, in that half-dug grave; there had been no time even to think of it. All these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, in the few seconds during which the man handed him the letter—bowed respectfully—and retired.

Almost mechanically, he tore open the envelope, and unfolded the sheet within it.

“Dear Sir,

“It is imperative that you should see me at once. I use the term ‘imperative,’ because it is necessary that there should be no delay about the matter. Permit me to add that the business has reference to the draft, recently paid into my hands, and drawn by a Mr. Arthur Barnshaw. I must ask you, if quite convenient to yourself, to be good enough to call upon me, at my office, to-morrow (Thursday) before noon.

“I am, Dear Sir,

“Your obedient servant,

“Z. Isaacson.”

The letter bore an address in the neighbourhood of Old Broad Street, London—and was dated that day.

Philip Chater read the letter through three times, without coming any nearer to its meaning. Again, the phrase—“drawn by a Mr. Arthur Barnshaw”—was more puzzling than anything else. It was, of course, probable—indeed, almost certain—that this Mr. Arthur Barnshaw was a relative of Madge; but, if so, what relative?—and on what terms of friendship, or otherwise, had he stood with the late Dandy Chater? All these things had to be discovered.

“Under any circumstances,” said Philip to himself, “this letter helps me, and points the road that I must travel. For the time, at least, I must get out of the way; this business calls me to London—and to London I will go. The name of Isaacson has a flavour of sixty per cent. and promissory notes; but I must leave explanations to him. I wish I knew who Arthur Barnshaw is.”

Still with that dread upon him of the fearful thing in the wood, he determined not to wait until the morrow, but to start for London that night. Finding, however, that it was far too late for any train to be running, he made up his mind to press Harry into his service; and sent for him, without any further delay.

The lad made his appearance at once, and stood quietly just within the closed door of the room, waiting for his master to speak. Between the two, from this night onwards, there seemed a tacit understanding that something was not to be mentioned between them, at any time—even while there was an equally strong understanding—also unspoken—that each watched for danger, and was ready to act swiftly, if necessary.

“Harry—I am going to London. Yes—yes—I know”—as the other glanced instinctively at the clock—“it’s too late for trains; I must drive as far as possible—and walk the rest. I leave all the details to you; get the horse you think will stay best; we shall go some fifteen miles, and you can then drop me, and drive back. Quick—there is no time to be lost!”

Understanding, only too well, the necessity for quickness and for caution, Harry returned, in a very short space of time, to announce that the dog-cart was in waiting at the gate in the lane, and a bag, packed with a few necessary articles, already in it. With the servant leading the way, Philip went through a long passage he had never traversed before, and, passing through a low doorway, found himself under the stars. The two men went silently across a sort of paddock, and came out into a narrow lane, where the dog-cart stood waiting, with the horse fastened to the fence.

“I thought it best to do it myself, Master Dandy; so I sent Jim away, and did the harnessing alone,” he said.

“Quite right, Harry,” replied Philip. “Here—you’d better drive—and take the straight road for London, once we get past the village.”

They had come almost to the end of the lane, when Philip’s quick ear detected the sound of running feet, on the road towards which they were driving. He signed to Harry to check the horse scarcely twenty yards from the road; and they drew up in the shadow of the trees.

“Get down,” he whispered to the lad—“and stroll out into the road to meet them. Find out what is the matter.”

Harry jumped down, and reached the road just as two men came running heavily along it. Philip, listening intently, while they gave their breathless answers, knew that the body was found, and that the frightened yokels were off in search of the village constable. As their hurried footsteps died away in the distance, Harry came back to the trap, and climbed in, and took the reins.

“You were wise to start to-night, Master Dandy,” he said, as he started the horse. “Bamberton won’t sleep to-night, with this news in the air.”

Leaving Bamberton behind them—to be stirred to its depths presently by the news, and to gather itself in excited shuddering knots, within and without the Chater Arms, and other public places; and to whisper, and shake heads, and offer many wise suggestions in regard to the murder—Philip Chater and his companion headed straight for London. It was pitch dark, and heavy rain had begun to fall, when, within about ten or fifteen miles of the first straggling outskirts of the great city, Philip directed the vehicle to be stopped, and sprang down into the road. They had rattled on, mile after mile, in silence; now, as he stood beside the steaming horse, he looked up at his servant.

“Understand, Harry,” he said, “I won’t have you interfere in this matter again. Keep away from the wood—keep away from everything and everybody. I am more grateful than I can say, for your devotion; and I will not insult you by asking you to be silent. Keep a stout heart, my lad; I’ll get clear of this, and be back with you before very long. Good-bye!”

He turned away, and struck off alone in the direction of London; Harry turned the jaded horse, and started on his journey back to Bamberton.

It was a very drenched and disconsolate-looking man that tramped into the slowly awakening streets of London some hours later. He found a modest hotel—a sort of superior public-house, of an old-fashioned type; and, after waiting some considerable time, was able to get something of a meal, and to get to bed. But his last thought, as he undressed, was that this hurried flight, on the spur of the moment, had been a blunder.

“Harry’s devotion and my fright have, I fear, carried us both away,” he muttered to himself. “The smuggling out of the dog-cart by a back way; this hurried race to London; above all—the spade, taken, I suspect, from the Hall—and left so near the body; it all points to Dandy Chater. Well—I must get this interview over to-morrow—or rather to-day—and see what further troubles are in store for me. For the moment, I am worn out, and shall do no good by thinking or planning.”

He slept soundly, and—a little before noon—presented himself at the office of Mr. Z. Isaacson, in the neighbourhood of Old Broad Street.

It was a somewhat pretentious place, consisting, so far as he could see, of but two rooms; the first of which, at least, was very solidly and heavily furnished. But by far the most solid and heavy piece of furniture in the place was the gentleman he imagined to be Mr. Z. Isaacson—a portly individual, with pronounced features, much watch-chain, and some heavy rings on his fat white fingers. Remembering, in time, that he was probably supposed to know this gentleman with some intimacy, Philip nodded carelessly, and threw himself into the chair which the other indicated.

“I’m glad you’ve come, my dear boy,” began Mr. Isaacson, in a familiar manner. He spoke with something of a nasal accent, and a little as though his tongue were too large for his mouth. “You know—we like to have things pleasant and square, and I like—as you’ve found before to-day—to do the amiable, if I can. But, you know, dear boy”—he passed his large hand over his shining bald head, and shook that head gravely—“this is rather—well, you know—really——”

His voice trailed off, and he pretended to be busy with some papers on his desk. Philip Chater looked at him for a moment, and then broke out impatiently,

“What are you talking about? What do you want with me?”

“Now, my dear boy,” said Mr. Isaacson, soothingly—“this is not the spirit I like to see—it isn’t really. You and me have had dealings, this year or two, and you’ve paid the little bit of interest I’ve asked, fairly and squarely; likewise, I’ve renewed from time to time—for a little consideration—and all has been square and pleasant. But, when it comes to playing it off on an old friend in this fashion—well, really, you know——”

Philip Chater was in no mood for unprofitable conversation, especially with a man of this stamp, on that particular morning. His nerves had been tried, beyond the lot of common nerves, within the past four-and-twenty hours; he had had a wet and weary journey, and not too much sleep. Consequently, the smooth oily utterances of Mr. Isaacson drove him almost to frenzy.

“Why the devil can’t you say what you’re driving at, and be done with it. You’ve brought me all this distance,” he cried, savagely—“and now you’re mouthing and carrying on in this fashion. What’s the matter with you? Out with it!”

Mr. Isaacson’s face underwent a sudden change; certain veins in his temples swelled up ominously, and he came a little way round his desk; leaning over it, and putting his face near to that of his visitor, he said, truculently—

“Oh—so you want me to out with it—do you? You’re not a bit ashamed of what you’ve done——”

“Ashamed? What of?” cried Philip.

“Forgery! Obtaining money by false pretences! Robbery! Holy Israel!—how much more do you want?”

“Not much more—thank you,” replied Philip, staggered into calmness. “Perhaps you’ll have the goodness to explain.”

“There isn’t much explanation needed,” snarled the other. “The last time you were in this office, you paid me a cheque for one thousand six hundred and twenty-six pounds, for accumulated interest, expenses, and other matters; because I had threatened that, unless I had that sum, by that date, I would come down on you, and sell you up. Now, you knew, Mr. Dandy Chater—and I knew—that you hadn’t any such sum of your own; therefore you came to me, bringing a cheque for the amount, on the same bank as your own, at Chelmsford, from a Mr. Arthur Barnshaw—the brother, so you told me, of the young lady you expected to marry.”

(“I’m glad I know who Arthur Barnshaw is,” thought Philip.)

“You told me a pretty story, about his having lent you the money, out of affection for his dear sister, and to keep the knowledge of your affairs from her ears. Now, Mr. Dandy Chater”—the man brought his hand down upon the desk with a bang, and became rather more red than before in the face—“perhaps you’ll be surprised to learn that that cheque has been referred, on account of the signature, to Mr. Barnshaw himself; and that he unhesitatingly states that it is a forgery, and that he never drew any cheque, for any such amount.”

Philip Chater, utterly at a loss what to say, sat staring at the man helplessly. The opening of the door behind him, and a change of expression to something milder on the part of Mr. Isaacson’s countenance, caused him to turn his head.

A young man—at whom it was unnecessary to cast a second glance, to assure him that this was Madge’s brother—had entered the room; had stopped, on seeing Philip; and now came hesitatingly forward. He was younger than Philip—scarcely more, from his appearance, than a year or two the senior of his sister. He waved aside the man Isaacson, and said, in a low voice, to Philip—

“I say, old fellow—I’d like to have a word with you.” Then, as Philip rose, and walked with him towards a window, he added, in a low voice—“Look here, Dandy—I want to do the square thing; and I swear to you that, if I’d have known that this affair had anything to do with you, I should never have pressed my enquiries. But, you see, the cheque was made out to the order of that old shark at the desk there, and I never guessed—now, look here—you’ve got into a hole, old boy—but I’d like to pull you out of it, if I can. What can we do? You see, I’ve got to think, not only of you, but of Madge; it’ll be such an awful blow to her.”

Philip wondered whether anything could be a greater blow to her than the sight on which her eyes had rested in the wood. But he said nothing. His one desire, at the moment, was to get clear away; and to drop, as completely as possible, out of the life in which he had usurped a place. There was, too, a wholly foolish and ridiculous idea in his head, that he would not like this girl, who had kissed his lips, and had once believed in him—(or in his dead counterpart)—to have any worse opinion than she at that time cherished. As by an inspiration, he remembered that the notes he had received on the night of the meeting at “The Three Watermen” were still in his pocket. He determined to use them.

He explained briefly to Arthur—even while he expressed his regret—that he had unexpectedly received a considerable sum of money—the proceeds from some speculations, the shares in which had long lain useless. He suggested that it might be possible to bribe that worthy Hebrew at the desk.

Mr. Isaacson was not at first to be persuaded; but the cheque being in his hands—marked “Refer to drawer”—he at last agreed to sell it, for the sum of three thousand pounds. Arthur Barnshaw struck a match—set fire to the tell-tale paper—and allowed it to burn down to his fingers. “That matter is done with,” he said, quietly.

In the street, however, a change came over him; he stood, for a moment, looking at Philip, and then thrust his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think I should care to shake hands—not yet,” he said. “I want to get over this.” He turned, and walked away.

At the same moment, a newsboy—hurrying past—shouted at the full pitch of his lungs—“’Orrible murder in Essex! Bank robbery in Sheffield! Weener!”

Philip Chater staggered, and then walked on, in a dazed condition. For he knew that he stood—wholly, in the one case—partly, in the other—responsible for both.