For a long time, Philip Chater sat staring, in a stupefied fashion, at the packets of bank-notes, and at the paper he held in his hand. He was at first utterly at a loss to understand why such a sum of money should have been paid into his hands, together with a similar sum for the mysterious man, his cousin, known as the Count. Gradually, however, a light began to dawn upon him; remembering the talk about diamonds, and about the young girl who was to receive no hurt, the horrible business began to piece itself together in his mind, bit by bit. Once again he seemed to be looking into the evil faces, in that upstairs room in the low public-house at Woolwich; saw that the giving of the packets—one for himself, and one for his cousin—had been but a dividing of the spoils of some successful robbery. More than that, the paper seemed to point to the fact that another robbery was planned, at the house of Madge Barnshaw.

Everything seemed to point to this. The affair had evidently been arranged by this same mysterious man Ogledon; and that he was a frequent visitor to Bamberton was obvious, from the mention made of him by Mrs. Dolman, the housekeeper, on the day of Philip’s first journey to Chater Hall. Again, the mention of the young girl who was not to be hurt—of the fact that they only expected to have to deal with women—all pointed to robbery, to which possible violence was attached.

“My God!” whispered Philip to himself, in an awed voice—“I’ve landed straight into the midst of some tremendous conspiracy. Dandy Chater—the Squire—the gentleman; yet Dandy Chater, the associate of thieves and footpads. Dandy Chater, professing love for the sweetest woman in the world, yet mixed up with scoundrels who are plotting to rob her! And, in the meantime, where in the world is this precious cousin of mine—Ogledon? Did Dandy Chater meet his death at that man’s hands, and is that the reason the fellow keeps out of sight? Well—two things are clear; in the first place, I have in my possession notes, which I believe to be stolen, to the extent of seven thousand pounds; and, in the second place, the gang from whom I escaped to-night are to plunder Madge’s house, on Friday next, soon after midnight.”

He began to pace up and down the room, in an agitated fashion; stopped suddenly, with a look of resolution on his face.

“Well—one thing is clear; I must find the rightful owners of this money, and restore it——Great Heavens—I can’t do that! This plunder belongs to Dandy Chater, and he belongs to the gang that stole it—and I—I’m Dandy Chater! Upon my word, I begin to wish that the good ship ‘Camel’ had struck a rock, somewhere on its voyage home from Australia, and had deposited me comfortably at the bottom of the ocean.”

Fully understanding the hopelessness of attempting to do anything, at all events at that time, Philip Chater put the notes under his pillow, and returned the slip of paper to his pocket. He had lain down in bed, with the full intention of putting off all thought until the morrow, when a remembrance of this same scrap of paper brought him suddenly upright in bed, in the darkness.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, softly—“I shall be able to find my way to the cottage easily enough, after all.”

He slept soundly through the night, and, quite early in the morning, set off for Bamberton—sending a telegram to “Harry—care of Dandy Chater, Esq., Bamberton,” to apprise that respectable young man-servant of the hour at which he desired to be met at the station.

“That’s another of the defects of my position,” he thought, savagely; “I don’t even know the name—the surname, at least—of my own servant. However, if there should happen to be more than one Harry at Chater Hall, I can blame it on the post office, and swear they left out the name.”

To his satisfaction, however, the Harry he wanted was awaiting his arrival at the little railway station, with the smart dog-cart in which he had driven before. But, ever on the watch for some sign of suspicion in those about him, Philip Chater noted, with a quick eye, that the pleasant manner of this young servant was gone; that he answered his master’s greeting, by merely touching his hat, and without a word in reply. More than that, he seemed to avoid Philip’s eyes as much as possible—glancing at him covertly, and, as it appeared, almost with aversion.

As they drove in the direction of Bamberton—Philip having the reins, and the young man sitting silently beside him—Philip broke an uncomfortable pause, by asking abruptly—“Anything happened since I went to town?”

For quite a long moment, Harry did not reply; Philip Chater, looking round at him quickly, saw that he was staring straight in front of him, down the long road before them, and that his face was rather white. “No, sir,” he replied at last—“nothing has happened.”

His manner was so strange—so perturbed, in fact, for his voice shook a little as he spoke—that Philip, scenting danger, guessed that something was wrong, and determined to get out of him what it was, while they were alone together. He turned quickly on the young man, checking the horse’s speed as he did so, and spoke quietly, though with a certain strong determination in his voice.

“Come, Harry—something has happened; I am convinced of it. You are hiding something from me; what is it?”

Another long pause, while the horse paced slowly along the road, and the hearts of both men beat faster than ordinary. At last, the servant spoke—still without looking at his master. He spoke doggedly, and as though repeating something he had trained himself, with difficulty, to say.

“There’s nothing I’m hiding, Master Dandy,” he said, slowly and distinctly—“and nothing has happened—since you went away.”

It was evident that nothing was to be got out of him; Philip touched the horse smartly with the whip, causing it to break into its former rapid pace, and said quietly, with something of reproach in his tone—“You are hiding something, Harry. I am sorry; I thought you were my friend.”

“God knows I am, Master Dandy!” broke from the other, almost with a groan. But he said nothing more, and they swept up the long drive to Chater Hall in silence.

Now, the ill-luck which seemed to have begun to pursue Philip Chater, caused time to hang heavily upon his hands that afternoon, and prompted him to stroll down to the Chater Arms. Truth to tell, he had a very strong desire to pay a visit to Madge Barnshaw—which would have been easy, now that the plan on the scrap of paper was in his hands. But he hesitated, for more reasons than one.

In the first place the natural chivalry of the man rebelled against the thought of taking advantage of the fraud he was compelled to practice upon an innocent woman. Some feeling, stronger than mere interest in her, had begun to stir in his breast, from the time when she had placed her hand upon his arm, in the church, until she had blushingly kissed his lips, and fled from him. For this man, so strangely made in the likeness of the dead, and so strangely placed, in the masquerading game he was forced to play, was desperately and bitterly lonely. Surrounded by unknown dangers—necessarily suspicious of every one with whom he came in contact—resenting, as an honest man, the lie he was obliged to live—he craved most earnestly for some sympathy and tenderness. All unconsciously, this woman had given them both to him; and, in the midst even of his remorse that he should be playing so false a game with her, was the natural selfish feeling of his manhood, which cried out—“Let her love me; she will never understand; I am as good, or better, than the man to whom she thinks she is giving her caresses. Born of the same mother, in the same hour, and fashioned so strangely alike—he, the younger, has had all the luxury and beauty of life hitherto; I—the elder—all its hardships and privations. Surely it is my turn—rightfully—now.”

Nevertheless, he thrust that thought from him, and resolved to see no more of her than was consistent with the keeping up of the fictitious character he had assumed. And thus it was that, in desperation, and haunted by troublesome thoughts, he betook himself to the Chater Arms.

The moment he entered the door of that respectable inn, he regretted having done so; for, behind the neat little bar, there sat, to his infinite surprise, the young girl whose black eyes had looked at him so reproachfully in church, and whom he had left weeping in the wood. However, he felt that he must make the best of it; and he therefore advanced, boldly and smilingly, and gave her greeting.

The girl was evidently disturbed in her mind by his appearance—yet not unhappily so; she blushed prettily, and rose, with some nervousness, to fulfil his demands. And, just at the moment when, as she was bending to pour out the liquor he had ordered, and, as he lounged on the bar, his own head was necessarily somewhat close to hers, the door swung open, and Harry came in.

The situation was, of course, ridiculous; for, whatever the methods of the late Dandy Chater might have been, Philip had a natural personal objection to drinking in public with his own servant. But, however he might have been disposed to resent it, the sight of the young man’s face gave him pause.

It had been white when they drove together in the dog-cart; it was white now—but with a different sort of whiteness. Then, his face had borne the expression of deep emotion—of a struggle to repress something—almost of a deadly fear; now, it was set into a look of stern and ill-suppressed anger. Moreover, he made no attempt to give his master any salutation, respectful or otherwise.

Desiring, at least for the sake of appearances, to assert his position, and being, at the same time, unwilling to wound the lad more than could be avoided, Philip stepped quietly up to him, and, with his back towards the girl, said, in a low voice—“I don’t desire that you should be seen here, at this hour of the day. When your duties at the Hall are ended, you can, of course, please yourself—but I can’t have you drinking here now.”

The once respectful Harry looked at him steadily for a moment, and returned a remarkable answer—speaking in the same suppressed voice as his master.

“I’ll please myself now, Master Dandy—and I’m not drinking. I’m here for a purpose.”

The nature of the elder man was too strong to be put off, even with such a rebuff as this; his manner changed, and his voice, when he spoke again, had in it the sternness of command.

“You forget yourself,” he said; “return at once to the Hall.”

The young man, without changing his attitude in the least, shook his head doggedly. “No, Master Dandy,” he replied—“I’m going to stay here.” His eyes wandered, for a moment, towards the girl with the black eyes behind the little bar.

“Very good. Then you understand that you leave my service from this hour. Is that clear?”

“No, Master Dandy—it ain’t clear. I don’t leave your service—now, most of all—not if you was to kick me, like a dog, from your doors.” He spoke in a hurried, breathless whisper, and, to the utter bewilderment and amazement of Philip Chater, his eyes—full of some mute appeal—had tears in them.

Baffled in earnest now, Philip Chater, after looking at Harry for a moment or two in perplexity, shrugged his shoulders, and turned away. But he had no stomach for the drink the girl had prepared for him; avoiding her eyes, he paid for it, and, without looking at either of them, walked out of the place.

He felt that some mystery was brooding, behind the extraordinary attitude of his young servant. Remembering the girl’s mention of him in the wood, he felt that mere foolish jealousy was at the bottom of the matter; and, knowing that this was one of the difficult legacies left behind by the late Dandy Chater, he accepted it philosophically. At the same time, he was puzzled at the young man’s last remark, and at the evident emotion he had displayed. Being in no mood to return to his solitary home, which seemed always full of unfamiliar ghosts of people he had never known, he struck off across some fields, and sat down on the felled trunk of a tree, and was soon lost in unprofitable dreaming.

He was roused from this, by hearing a footstep quite close to him; looking up, he saw the man from whom he had so recently parted. Anger at the thought of being followed, and spied upon, brought him hurriedly to his feet.

“What do you want? What right have you to follow me, in this fashion? I suppose you’ve come to plead something, in extenuation of your rudeness—eh?” he exclaimed. “I’ll hear nothing—I’ve nothing to say to you.”

He turned away angrily, and walked a half-dozen paces; twisted on his heel, and came back again. Harry had not moved; he stood, with his hands clasped tightly together before him, and with his head bowed on his breast. When he spoke, his voice was low, and had a curious mournful ring in it, that struck upon his listener’s heart like a knell.

“Master Dandy—I’m only a common country lad, that’s seen nothing of the great world, and knows but little of the rights or wrongs of things, more than whatever good God put in my heart can teach me. But I’ve only known one life, Master Dandy—and that’s you!”

He took a half step forward, and stretched out his clasped hands, in mute appeal—dropping them again the next moment. Philip Chater—humbled and awed by the pathetic dignity of the lad—was silent.

“The first thing I remember, Master Dandy, was having you pointed out to me, on your pony, as the young Squire; I used to go out of my way, to watch you cantering along the roads. Then, afterwards, when you took notice of me, and wouldn’t have any one else near you, and made me your servant, I was prouder than I can ever express. God forgive me—(but there’s no blasphemy in it, Master Dandy)—you were my God to me—my everything! I think I would have been glad to let you thrash me, as you did your dogs, if I could have thought it would please you.”

Philip Chater found his voice at last—although it was rather an unsteady one. “Well,” he said, with what brusqueness he could muster—“what has all this to do with the matter?”

“Master Dandy,” went on the appealing voice—“I’m not a great gentleman, like you—and I can’t put my poor thoughts into the right words. But—Master Dandy—won’t you—won’t you try to run straight with me—won’t you let me help you? Master Dandy”—he came a step nearer, in his eagerness—“I’d give—I’d give my life for you!”

“Yes—and yet you’ll insult me, because I happen to look at some girl in whom you take an interest,” said Philip, slowly.

The lad’s figure stiffened, and the appeal died out of his eyes. “Because I love her, Master Dandy,” he said. “Because I’ve got the feelings of a man, and I know that a gentleman like yourself doesn’t pay court to a tavern-keeper’s daughter, with any good intent.”

“Why—what the devil do you mean?” cried Philip, startled for the moment into answering out of his own honest heart.

“Master Dandy—I’ve stuck up for you through thick and thin—and I’d kill the man who dared to say a word against you. But you know what has been said, about these parts—God forgive me, I’m speaking as man to man, and not as servant to master—and you know that decent mothers warn their girls about you. Master Dandy—I suppose these are gentlemen’s ways—at least, I’ve heard so; and I’d have held my tongue, and done my duty, if so be you had not touched what belonged to me. But she’s mine, Master Dandy—and she’s a child—and innocent. God in Heaven, man!”—all social distinctions seemed to be swept away, for the moment, in the passion which overwhelmed him—“was not one forlorn woman’s life enough for you?”

Staggered by the words, and even more by the tone in which they were uttered, Philip Chater turned upon him swiftly, and caught his arm. “What do you mean? ‘One forlorn woman’s life!’ What are you talking about?”

All the passion had faded from the face of the other man; but the eyes which looked into those of Philip Chater had a horrible deadly fear growing in them.

“Master Dandy—before God, I think I’m the only man who knows it. There is time for you to get away—to hide beyond seas—never to come back to this place, where you have been led to do such wrong. Master Dandy!”—he had fallen upon his knees, at the feet of the other man, and was clasping his dress, in the agony of his appeal—“I knew you when you were a bright faced lad, laughing in the sunshine, and with no stain of blood upon you. Master Dandy——”

“Stain of blood!” cried Philip, recoiling. “What are you talking of? What madness possesses you?”

“No madness, Master Dandy—would to Heaven it might be!” cried the other. “It isn’t for me to see into a gentleman’s heart, or to know what temptations he may have, above such as I am. But the thing is done, and all high Heaven can’t undo it now. Master Dandy—there is yet time to get away, before they find it.”

“Will you tell me what you mean?” cried Philip, distractedly.

Harry got up from his knees, and came nearer to his master—looking all about him fearfully first, as though afraid there might be listeners, even in that spot.

“Listen, Master Dandy,” he whispered. “Last night—restless, and thinking of you—for you haven’t been as kind to me lately as you once were, Master Dandy—I crept out of the house, and went out in the moonlight. I walked a long way, without knowing it—and I came to the wood behind the old mill.”

Like an echo, there came to Philip Chater certain words, spoken by a girl who called herself Patience Miller, and who had met him on the night of his arrival at Bamberton. As in a dream, too, while the other man went on speaking, he seemed to see a figure dart out into the highway—a figure that afterwards scraped heavy clay from its boots, in the light of a flickering lamp—a figure which now lay at the bottom of the Thames.

“Master Dandy,” went on the agitated voice—“I came, by accident, to where she lay, with blood upon her—dead—in the moonlight. Master Dandy”—he put his hands before his face, and shuddered—“say it isn’t true, Master Dandy—for God’s sake, say it isn’t true!”

“What do you mean?” asked Philip, hoarsely, with an awful sweat of fear beginning to break out upon him.

“Master Dandy—in the wood behind the mill—Patience Miller—murdered!”

With a cry, the lad fell at his feet, and buried his face in the grass.