Philip stood, for some moments, turning over in his mind the probable cause of the extraordinary terror evinced by the Captain, while he watched the flying figure of that gentleman, careering down the street. After some little thought, he put down that sudden desire, on the Captain’s part, to get away from him, to a knowledge of the murder; and to a natural dread and abhorrence of the man he supposed to be guilty of it. He turned away, with bitterness in his heart, feeling that all the world was against him; and made his way back towards London by train. Arriving at Charing Cross, he bought an evening paper, and turned to see what news there might be concerning the dreadful thing which was always in his mind.

More than a column was devoted to it—with interviews with wholly uninteresting people, of whom he had never heard, nor, indeed, any one else—giving their several versions of the matter; how this one had heard a scream—and another a dog bark—and how a third had an aunt, who had dreamed of a man with a red mark on his forehead, about a week before the occurrence. But there was absolutely nothing in any report which connected him with the affair—at least, by name.

It was stated that the police had several clues; but that was to be expected. Only, at the end of the column, was a suggestion that the police had issued a warrant against a man well known in the neighbourhood, who had disappeared some two days before. That was from a telegram dated that afternoon—Friday.

Philip Chater sat down, on a seat in the station, and pondered the matter again. “The warrant is for me—that’s certain. But there is no mention of my name—so that that idea about the Captain goes to the winds. Now—what on earth can have startled him in that fashion?”

Turning the paper over in his hands, he came upon a “Stop-Press” telegram, in the small space reserved for such things, and read it.

“The body of an unknown man—well dressed—was taken from the river below Woolwich this afternoon. Nothing in pockets to lead to identification.”

Once again, Philip Chater seemed to stand at the corner of the dark street in Woolwich; once again, he seemed to see the ghastly face of the startled Captain, as he backed away. Philip Chater folded the paper rapidly, and got up, with an excited face.

“By all that’s wonderful!—he’s found the real Dandy Chater!” he muttered.

That thought, and all that it might involve for him and so many others, set him walking at a rapid pace, thinking hard as he went, and without paying much attention as to the direction he took. But his thoughts, coming, by a natural transition, to the girl who would be most affected by any news of Dandy Chater, leapt from thence to the quiet garden, wherein he had walked and talked with her. Then in a flash, his mind went back, over the discovery of the road which led him to the cottage, to the plan on the scrap of paper—and to the reason for that plan.

“‘Friday night—as soon after ten o’clock as possible. Only women to deal with!’ Great Heavens!” he exclaimed—“and this is Friday night!”

He hailed a hansom, and shouted to the man to drive to Liverpool Street Station. Arriving there in hot haste, he found that he could catch an express, which would land him at a small town a few miles from the station at which he had before alighted for Bamberton. Taking his seat in this, a few moments before its departure, he found himself, somewhat to his consternation, in the company of a couple of men who were discussing the murder in the wood—evidently newspaper men, judging by what they said.

“Yes,” said the first—“I’m going down, so as to be on the spot if there’s anything fresh. In any case, I must wire up about half a column.”

“I think we shall probably have some news to-night,” replied the second man. “Our people have got hold of an idea that the police have spotted their man, and may get hold of him within the next few hours. I hear that Tokely has the case in hand.”

“Ah—smart man, Tokely,” said the other nodding. “I wonder if that swell who was spoken about had anything to do with it?”

“I dare say,” replied his friend, coolly. “If so, it’ll make rare good copy—won’t it? Trusting village maiden—young Squire—and all the other details. By Jove—won’t our people lick it up!”

Philip Chater, sick at heart, turned away, and tried to busy himself in the paper he had bought. But the more he tried to read, and to fix his mind on the page before him, the more hopeless became the tangle into which the words seemed to form themselves. He thought of himself—a fugitive; of his brother, fished out of the river, and perhaps by this time identified. Philip Chater had but to think, for an instant, of the contents of his own pockets at that moment, to realise the desperate position in which he stood.

He had the dead man’s watch and chain—his cheque book and other papers; he had upon him also, a large number of bank-notes, which he knew must have been stolen, and part of which he had paid away to cover up a forgery which he was also supposed to have committed. More than all, he was venturing now into the very heart of the enemy’s country, in the hope to stop a robbery, with which he was also connected—and at the house of the woman he loved. It is small wonder that he saw, in all this, a resistless tide, which must sooner or later sweep him to destruction.

Arriving at the small station for which he had taken his ticket, he alighted with the two newspaper men, and saw them get into a vehicle which had evidently been ordered for them. Not wishing to ask any more questions than were absolutely necessary, he watched this carriage, as it drove away, and followed the road it took. Glancing at the watch he carried, by the light of the last lamp he passed, he saw that it was nearly eight o’clock; and he had, so far as he could judge, nearly eleven miles to go before reaching Bamberton. But his purpose was a strong one, and the night was fine; he set out to walk the distance, knowing that he dared not ask for a lift from any passing cart, lest he should be recognised.

At one or two points on his journey, where sign-posts were too illegible to be read, or the night too dark to see them clearly, he was compelled to wait—fuming and impatient—until such time as a slow-footed, slow-voiced countryman should come in sight. At such times Philip Chater pulled his hat down as far as possible over his face, and kept in the shadow. But he got through each interview safely, until within a mile or two of the village—when taking a wrong turning and losing his bearings hopelessly, he was obliged to wait again, in the hope of some one passing him.

This time, it was a woman; and she civilly directed him—showing him a short cut, which would bring him she said, within a short distance of Chater Hall. He thanked her, and was turning away, when she came rapidly nearer to him, and peered into his face; cried his name, in a sort of shriek; struck at him; and ran off towards some cottages, where lights were gleaming, screaming—“Murder!”

He lost no time in getting away from the spot, and ran as hard as he could in the direction she had indicated. He had heard the deep boom of a church clock strike ten some time before, and his one desperate fear was that he might arrive too late to prevent the robbery. At that thought, he redoubled his efforts, and did not stop until he saw the huge bulk of Chater Hall looming up against the sky.

Hunted—wretched—forlorn—exhausted, the unhappy man stood, for a few moments, leaning against a tree, and contemplating the place that was rightfully his. He was even in a mood to curse the father who had banished him, and who was sleeping, peacefully enough, in the churchyard near at hand. He almost wished that his own troubles were ended, and that he was beyond the reach of pursuit.

“It’s hard,” he muttered, savagely—“that I, who have never wronged any living creature knowingly, should be in this plight now. If I had had the chance that was given to my brother, should I have used it better—or have I merely kept out of temptation, because temptation kept out of me? Heaven knows! But, while I stand here cursing my fate, those wretches have got to work, I’ll be bound, and may be clear away again before I reach the place. Now to remember the roads I traversed before—and yet to keep out of the sight of all men, and”—he added, as an after-thought—“all women!”

With these words, he crept round, as near as he dared, to the front of the house, and struck off cautiously from there in the direction of the cottage.

Now it happened that night that Madge Barnshaw, being wholly occupied with sad thoughts, and having no friendly being in whom she could confide, or to whom she felt disposed to tell the tragic story which was by this time in every mouth, had gone early to her room, leaving Miss Vint—her distant cousin and guardian—nodding over the fire. Arthur Barnshaw, who had arrived from town only the day before, was in the room he called his “den,” reading and smoking, and the house was very quiet. Miss Vint, being very comfortable, fell asleep.

When she awoke, the fire had long gone out, and the room was chilly. Miss Vint rose, shuddering and yawning, and, having extinguished the light, went out into the hall; took her candle, and slowly and sleepily mounted the stairs to her chamber.

Passing a window on the staircase, immediately below the level of her own room, Miss Vint stopped suddenly, and became very wide awake. Clearly and distinctly, in the death-like silence which pervaded everything, Miss Vint had heard a voice—muffled and cautious—apparently proceeding from below. What the words were that were spoken, she could not say; but she had distinctly heard a voice—and that voice the voice of a man.

Before the worthy lady had had time to decide what to do, another voice—as muffled and cautious as the first—answered; only, in this case, it appeared to come from above—almost as though (but the idea was, of course, too ridiculous to be entertained) the first speaker had been outside, in the garden, and the second at an open window, speaking down at him.

Miss Vint’s first natural thought was to rush downstairs, and summon Arthur Barnshaw to her assistance. But it was a long way downstairs, and there was a dark and ghostly corridor to be traversed before she could reach him. On the other hand, her room was quite close; she had but to dash up three steps, open the door, plunge in, and find herself in safety.

Accordingly, Miss Vint took the plunge; flung open the door—shut it hurriedly—and locked it on the inside. At the same instant, Miss Vint’s candle was softly blown out, and a strong firm hand was placed over Miss Vint’s mouth—a hand which pressed her, not too ceremoniously, against the door she had locked.

“Not a word,” whispered a voice, huskily. “Scream—and I’ll knock yer bloomin’ brains out. I ain’t alone; there’s pals o’ mine outside, as mightn’t be so considerate of a lady’s feelin’s. Now—are yer goin’ to be quiet?”

Miss Vint nodded her head, as well as she could for the steady pressure of the hand upon her mouth, and the man relaxed his hold. She could just dimly discern his figure, looming large above her, in the dim light which came from outside the window.

“What do you want?” asked Miss Vint, in a frightened whisper.

“We’ve got wot we want,” replied the man, in a low voice—“an’ nobody ain’t ’urt a bit. I found my way into the young lady’s room, without wakin’ of ’er—an’ now I’ll wish you good-night. On’y mind”—the man paused, for a moment, to give his words greater effect—“I’ve got something ’ere wot’ll keep yer quiet, if I ’ears any noise from yer.” Miss Vint felt something hard and cold touch her forehead.

“My good man,” whispered Miss Vint, tremulously, “you may be sure I will not place you under the necessity for doing violence upon me. I would only beg that you will join your companions—I hesitate, in your presence, to call them depraved, although I fear they are not what they should be—and leave me in peace. Your friends are evidently impatient to see you.” This last was in reference to a low whistle, which sounded from the lawn.

The man, after hesitating for a moment, moved slowly towards the window, which Miss Vint noticed, for the first time, was wide open; and got one leg over the sill; looking back at her, he shook a fist, by way of caution to her to be quiet; lifted the other leg over, and slowly disappeared—apparently down a ladder—from her view.

Then it was that Miss Vint, no longer restrained by the fear of his presence, opened her mouth, and emitted a long and piercing shriek—a shriek so tremendous, that it brought Arthur Barnshaw tumbling out of his den, half asleep, and stumbling blindly in the darkness; and brought another man, who had been crouching behind a hedge, leaping over it, and hurrying to the scene. Having accomplished these useful purposes, Miss Vint backed towards her bed, and fainted away, with propriety and comfort.

The second man, who had leapt the hedge, was no other than Philip Chater; and, as he hurried to the scene, he caught a momentary glimpse of the little drama that was going forward. In the first place, he saw a man hurriedly and unceremoniously coming down a ladder from a window; saw him thrust something into the hands of another man, who stood near at hand, and make off in another direction, clearing the low hedge at a bound, and vanishing in the darkness. While this was happening, the door of the house had been wrenched open from inside, and a young man had dashed out, and grappled with a taller figure, standing also near the ladder—a taller figure which, after a short struggle, threw the man who grappled with him, and made off also, in the same direction as the first. All this passed within a few seconds, and before Philip had had time to do anything. But he saw, at this moment, that the man into whose hands that something had been thrust, by the man who had come down the ladder, was making off also—not with the strength of the others, but as though he were older and weaker. This man Philip Chater immediately seized; when, to his consternation, the man in his grip—(and who was no other than our friend Dr. Cripps)—after one horrified glance into his face, fell upon his knees, babbling and stuttering; and then, casting from him what he held, broke away, and went careering like a madman across the garden.

Philip, for his part, was so astonished, that he made no effort to follow the little man; but, seeing something gleaming, in the faint light of the stars, on the ground at his feet, stooped, and picked it up. Having dropped on one knee in doing this, he was absolutely powerless to defend himself, when a man sprang upon him, caught him by the throat, and forced him backwards to the ground.

“I’ve got one of you, at least,” cried a voice which sounded curiously familiar. “It’s no use struggling; you won’t get away, I can assure you.” Then, as he caught sight of the face of his prisoner, he dropped his hands from Philip’s throat, and struggled to his feet, and stood staring down at him. It was Arthur Barnshaw.

For a moment or two, there was a death-like silence between the two men; then Philip spoke, although he knew that what he had to say would sound futile and absurd.

“I—I heard that this robbery was to be committed—and I came here, as rapidly as I could, in the hope to prevent it,” he said, in a low voice.

Barnshaw’s voice was cold and hard when he replied. “Indeed? How did you hear of it?”

“In—in London—quite by accident.”

“What is that you have in your hand?” asked Barnshaw, in the same tone.

Philip slowly raised his hand, which held the thing Dr. Cripps had dropped, and held it up in the light; it sparkled and glittered, and threw back a hundred changing brilliancies to the night.

“It is my sister’s necklace,” said Barnshaw. “Give it to me.” Then, as he took it in his hand, he said slowly—“This was taken out of the house to-night, by the men who have escaped. They have all got away—except yourself——”

“Good God, Barnshaw,” faltered the other—“you surely don’t think——”

“You knew that the robbery was to be committed; so much, on your own confession. I find you hiding in the garden, with this actually in your hands.” Without another word, he turned, and walked slowly back to the house.

For some moments, Philip knelt upon the ground where the other had left him, staring after Barnshaw like one stunned. Then, slowly and heavily, he rose from his knees and went out of the garden, with bowed head, and without once looking round.

Meanwhile, Dr. Cripps, being incapable of the feat of agility which had carried his friends over the hedge, went crashing straight through it; ducked suddenly, and ran along on the other side, beneath it, in order to keep out of the view of any one who might be on the lookout for him. And, running thus, he dashed straight into the arms of a man who was also crouching down behind it. After a very brief struggle, feeling himself in a grip from which it was impossible to escape, he resigned himself to circumstances, remained passive, and looked up at his captor.

“Ogledon!” he ejaculated. “I thought it was a policeman!”

The man into whose hands he had fallen shook him until his teeth seemed to rattle, and whispered angrily—“So you’ve bungled it, have you?—rousing the house in that fashion. Who’s got the necklace?”

“D-D-Dandy C-C-Chater!” stuttered Cripps, faintly.

The man dropped him, as hurriedly as though he had been red-hot; looked all about him; and seemed to breathe hard.

“What do you mean? What the devil are you talking about?” He spoke in what seemed almost a frightened whisper.

The little man, bewildered alike by the shaking, and by the sudden change in the demeanour of Ogledon, lost his balance completely, and stammered out—

“It’s no good—the devil is in everything. I fished him out of the river only this very day, and laid him on the bank, as dead as twenty doornails; yet he caught me in the garden here just now, and stared straight into my eyes—and he’s got the diamond necklace!”

“You’re mad!” whispered the other, in the same uneasy fashion.

“I’m not—I’m not—but I soon shall be!” muttered Cripps. “I tell you that Dandy Chater is dead—been dead for days; and yet he’s got the necklace, and is in that garden”—he pointed awfully behind him, as he spoke—“at the present moment. As sure as I’m a living sinner—Dandy Chater has come to life again!”