Not daring to say a word in explanation to the Captain or Mrs. Quist, Clara went out that night, when darkness had fallen, and waited near the prison. Fortunately, it stood in a quiet spot—not much frequented after nightfall; she found a convenient arched doorway, from which she could watch the building unseen.

On the first night, nothing happened; the moon was set high in flying clouds, and the night was very still; now and then, she heard the passing feet of a pedestrian, crossing the end of the street in which she stood; once, a man went along on the opposite side, under the high walls, whistling—but did not see her. Mrs. Quist, having provided her with a key, in her trustfulness of heart, the girl lingered until a very late hour, and until the last footstep had died away. But still there was nothing.

On the second night, with a growing hope, she waited again—wishing, with all the strength of her love, that her eyes might pierce the heavy walls, and discover what the prisoner was doing. She had almost given up hoping for anything, and was preparing to return home to her lodging, when a curious sound broke upon her ear, and she started forward out of the gateway, keenly watchful.

She had heard a quick light thud upon the pavement, and then the rapid feet of some one running. Almost before she had had time to collect her thoughts, or to decide whether to hide again, or show herself, a figure dashed straight towards her, down the street, in the shadow of the wall. Some instinct causing her to spring out, the figure stopped, drawn straight up against the wall, and then slowly crossed towards her. The next moment her hands were in those of Philip Chater.

She had time, before he spoke, to notice that the hands which held hers were cut and bleeding; that he panted heavily, as though after some terrible exertion; and that he was covered with dust and lime-wash, and was hatless.

“Show me the way,” he panted. “Hide me somewhere—quick!”

She hurried on with him, while he crouched in the shadow of the houses, so that her figure might cover him as much as possible. They had scarcely more than a hundred yards to go, before she put her key swiftly in the lock of a door—drew him through, and shut it behind her. Bidding him, in a whisper, wait where he was, in the darkness of the passage, she softly opened the door of a lighted room, and went in.

Now it happened that evening, that Captain Peter Quist was in a great state of excitement. He had completed, that very day, the purchase of an absolutely ideal circus; a circus in full working order, the proprietor of which was only anxious to pass it into the hands of its new owner, and retire into private life. The delighted Captain had discovered that his new property consisted of three or four well-fitted caravans—a few small tents, together with one huge one for the accommodation of his audiences—and some waggons, with the necessary fittings for the concern. Horses—performing and otherwise—there were in abundance; and the Captain had already been assured that the male and female staff was only too ready to accept service under him. And the proprietor, having expressed a desire that Quist should see the show in working order, and be initiated into its mysteries gradually, the Captain, at the very moment of Clara’s entrance into the room, was busily engaged in packing a few articles which he considered proper and appropriate to his new standing in life.

The chief of these articles consisted of a high and very glossy silk hat, which was at that moment perched upon the Captain’s head; and a pair of Wellington boots, as glossy in appearance as the hat, and into which the Captain was struggling. Indeed, he had just got them on, and was very red in the face from his exertions, when Clara darted in. Before she had had time to utter a word, Mrs. Quist—who had been regarding her lord and master with an expression half of admiration, half of contempt—turned towards Clara, with a view to relieving her feelings.

“Look at ’im, Miss,” she exclaimed, extending a hand towards the Captain, who had got on to his legs, and was swaggering about the little parlour—“did you ever see sich a figger in all yer born days? Do yer think I’d ever ’ave led that to the altar—if I’d knowed wot ’e was a comin’ to in ’is old days? Begin at the top”—she indicated the Captain’s hat—“an’ ’e’s fit fer ’Igh Park, or a drorin’-room; come to ’is middle”—the indignant woman indicated the Captain’s seafaring blue coat—“an’ ’e’s a decent man an’ a sailor; look at ’is legs (if so be as you’ll excuse sich a remark, Miss)—an’ ’e might be a coachman out o’ work, or the bottom ’arf of a French Markiss. ’Im in a circus; w’y ’e don’t know no more about ’osses than a bluebottle!”

“’Old ’ard, my dear—’old ’ard,” remonstrated the Captain, surveying his boots with a very proper pride—“I’m merely a livin’ up to me character; w’y, a get-up like this ’ere ’ll even make the ’osses ’ave a proper respect for me.” Then, observing suddenly that Clara stood, with clasped hands, looking from him to his wife appealingly, and with tears in her eyes, he checked himself, and came slowly towards her.

“Why, my lass,” he said, in a tone of sympathy—“wot’s wrong with yer? You look as if you’d ’ad a fright of some kind—don’t she, Missis?”

“I want your help,” said Clara, glancing behind her towards the door. “My friend—the unfortunate man of whom I spoke—Mr. Chater——”

The Captain immediately began to back away, in some perturbation. Mrs. Quist, on the other hand, readily divining that something was wrong, nodded to Clara quickly to continue what she had to say.

“Mr. Chater has—has escaped—and is here at this moment.”

Mrs. Quist darted after Clara into the little passage; the Captain, scarcely knowing what he did, took off his hat, and held it pointed towards the door, as though it were a weapon, and he might defend himself with it. When, a moment later, Mrs. Quist and the girl came in, and the Captain, looking past them, saw Philip Chater enter the room, he immediately dived down behind the table on his knees, keeping only his eyes above the level of it.

“Take ’im away! Don’t let ’im come near me,” he begged, in a hoarse and trembling whisper. Then, addressing Philip in a conciliatory tone, he added—“I never done nothink to you, ole pal, w’en you was in the flesh—an’ all I asks is that you’ll go back w’ere you come from—w’erever it is—an’ sleep sound. I ain’t done nothink to deserve spooks. Go back, my lad—go back!”

Philip, despite his own danger, burst into a roar of laughter. “There’s nothing of the ghost about me, Quist,” he said. “I think I can understand what you mean—and presently I’ll explain everything. But, for the moment, I am in desperate peril; I’ve broken out of the jail here, and may be searched for at any moment. I want you to hide me.”

The Captain rose from his knees, still somewhat doubtfully, and came slowly round the table; approached Philip in gingerly fashion; and finally ventured to take one of his hands; squeezed it—squeezed it a little more. Then his face broke up into smiles, and he clapped Philip jovially on the shoulder. Remembering, however, the more serious part of the business, he darted to the window, and drew the curtain across it; then sat down, breathing hard, and staring at Philip with all his might. Finally, he got up, and came to Philip again, and shook hands with him, as though to assure himself that he was solid flesh and blood.

“This comes of keepin’ bad company,” ejaculated the Captain at last. “You gits yerself in the river—an’ very bloated you looks, I do assure you—you gits into jail—an’ you likewise gits out of it; an’ you frightens a honest sailor-man (leastways—sailor-man retired; circus-man now)—you frightens him nearly out of ’is wits. But still—it’s good to see you again; an’, if the Missis can find us a drain o’ something’—jist a toothful apiece—we can talk over things comfortable-like.”

It was just at this moment, as Mrs. Quist turned smilingly to get out bottles and glasses, that Philip discovered, to his consternation that little Clara Siggs, who had sat down on a sofa near him, was swaying to and fro, with a very white face, although she bravely tried to smile. He had just time to step forward, and catch her in his arms, when she gave a sort of gasp, and fainted dead away. Overwrought for so long, she had given way, now that the danger seemed over, and the tension relaxed.

Bitterly blaming himself for having exposed her to such trials, he picked her up tenderly in his arms, and, guided by Mrs. Quist, carried her upstairs to her room. There, being assured by that good woman that it was nothing more serious than a sudden attack of faintness, Philip left her in charge of the girl, and rejoined the Captain in the room below.

“One thing I must ask you, Captain,” he said when he was seated with that gentleman at the table—“and that is, in regard to your taking me for a ghost. What induced you to imagine I was anything but the Philip Crowdy whom you knew on the voyage from Australia?”

On this, the Captain, with much detail, entered into a full account of the finding of the body of the unfortunate Dandy Chater by himself and Cripps; and, although he did not know, of course, the name of the latter, the description he gave, and his statement that he had seen the little man on the night of his invasion of the upper room at “The Three Watermen,” enabled Philip to identify the man who had been with him when the body was found. For the first time, too, he understood the reason for the Doctor’s consternation on meeting him in the garden of the Cottage.

“I’m not surprised,” said Philip, “that you should have been upset at seeing me. The body you took from the river was that of my brother—whom I never knew in life. He was, I have every reason to believe, murdered; at all events, I found him lying dead on the river bank. I took his belongings; I took his place—and, by Heaven, Captain—I’ve taken his sins too. I’ve been chased and hunted like a dog for his sins; I’ve had the best woman in the world turn from me, as from a leper, for his sins; and I’ve been in jail for his sins. I put on this hideous disguise, at the whim of a moment; and now I cannot shake it off.”

“But there’s them as would swear to you, if need be,” urged the Captain.

“Not yet,” replied Philip, hurriedly. “The time may come when I shall be glad to declare who I really am; for the present it is impossible. Meanwhile—what of the body you found in the river?”

“Well—I’ve kep’a eye on the papers,” replied the Captain—“an’ I’ve read accounts of the inquest. They set it forth, clear and reg’lar, as ’ow the body ’ad bin left on the river-bank, by two parties wot was evidently afraid of ’avin’ their names mixed up in the business; of ’ow there was nothink on the body to show who it was—an’ the injury to the ’ead might have bin caused by barges, or anythink of that kind. Verdict in consequence—unknown man—found drowned. And, I suppose, buried accordin’.”

“Yes—it merely leaves me in a worse position than before. So far as all the world knows—as all the world believes—Dandy Chater is alive—and must stand his trial for the sins he has committed. I have taken his place—his papers—his keys; I should be bound to confess that I saw his body on the shore. If they did not swear that I murdered him, they might laugh at the story, and refuse to recognise any mass of corruption dug up out of the grave as the real Dandy Chater.”

“Then wot are you a goin’ to do?” asked the Captain, in perplexity.

“There is but one chance for me,” said Philip, thoughtfully. “I have a suspicion that I know who the real murderer of Dandy Chater was; if I can once see him, and force from him any confession, my way is clear. For that purpose I escaped to-night—that purpose and another. And in that I want you to help me.”

“There’s my ’and on it,” said the Captain, quickly. “But I don’t think you’ll want much ’elp, Phil,” he added, with a laugh. “Any man as can go a breakin’ jail like you, ought to be a match for most people. ’Ow did yer manage it, Phil?”

Philip laughed softly to himself. “It was rather a tough business,” he said. “It all had to be done in a few minutes. I was left alone in a waiting-room for a moment, in going from one part of the prison to another. There was a sort of skylight high up—with hardly too much room for a cat to wriggle through. But there were ropes to it, to open and shut it—and you know what I can do when there’s a rope handy, Quist.”

The Captain nodded darkly and rubbed his hands; contemplated his friend with admiration and begged him to proceed.

“I nearly tore my clothes off my back, in getting through; but, once through, there was only a roof to slide down—a yard to cross—and a wall. Luckily I found a builder’s pole lying against it and scrambled up that; dropped over, and found that dear girl in the street. She brought me here.”

The more they discussed the matter, the more evident it became that Philip must be got away before daylight. For a long time, the Captain ruminated over the matter, wondering what to do. He suggested, from time to time, the most absurd and impracticable disguises—even offering to lend his precious top-boots for the occasion. But at last a really brilliant idea suggested itself to him.

“The circus!” he exclaimed, slapping his leg with much vehemence. “That’s the very thing! I’m a goin’ out to see them move the show, quite early to-morrow morning’—just to see ’ow it’s done. They’ve got to start precious early, so as to reach the town they’re a goin’ to in time for the performance at night. Now—wishin’ to identify myself with the business as early as possible—I’ve asked ’em to send in one of the caravans to fetch me—so as to make a sort of percession of it. As the show’s mine, of course they don’t mind a gratifyin’ a little weakness like that. Now—if you can’t ’ide in a caravan—w’ere can you ’ide, Phil?”

“It sounds like the very thing,” replied Philip. “You can drop me quietly on the road, when we are clear of the town, and nothing need be known of me. But what of this girl, who has been so brave and loyal to me? I can’t leave her behind.”

“That’s easy arranged,” responded the Captain. “Let ’er stop ’ere; the Missis ’ll be glad to give ’er shelter as long as you like; an’ you may be sure she’s in good ’ands.”

Philip gratefully accepted the offer; and, neither of them being disposed for sleep, they sat and talked the night away, or such part of it as remained. Philip duly impressed upon the Captain the necessity for preserving silence concerning the real story of Dandy Chater—making his plea more forcible by telling the worthy man of the difficulties he might find himself in, should it become known that he had harboured a fugitive, or assisted him to escape.

Soon after four o’clock in the morning, wheels were heard outside, in the quiet street, and a knock sounded at the door. The Captain—spying out the land from the window—signalled to Philip that all was right, and they prepared to set out. Mrs. Quist had come downstairs, and had announced that the girl was sleeping soundly.

“Then I won’t disturb her,” said Philip. “I know that she will be well cared for, and I am more grateful than I can express. Will you tell her, when she wakes, that I am safe, and have gone with the Captain; that I will find an opportunity of seeing her mother, and assuring her that her child is safe? And now, if the Captain can lend me a cap of some sort, I am ready.”

The Captain would have pressed his own gorgeous silk hat upon his friend, but being dissuaded from this with some difficulty, provided him with a cloth cap, which would be less likely to attract attention.

Then the Captain sallied out, to be sure that the coast was clear; and, there being no one in sight, Philip took leave of Mrs. Quist, and darted into the caravan, which moved off at once.

It was still quite dark when they got clear at last of the streets of Chelmsford; and Philip Chater was beginning to congratulate himself upon the fact of having got out of his difficulties so neatly, when the man who acted as driver, and to whom the Captain must have given some word of warning, rapped smartly on the side of the vehicle.

The Captain, who had begun to fill his pipe, and had quite settled down to the enjoyment of his ride, popped open the little window in the side of the caravan, and put out his head. “What’s wrong, mess-mate?” he asked.

The man informed him rapidly that there was a gig—so far as he could make out, judging by the twin lights—coming over the hill behind them from the town—and evidently coming at a great rate. Indeed, in the silence—the caravan having stopped—they could hear the swift beat of a horse’s hoofs.

“Ask him what road we are on,” said Philip.

The Captain did so, and the man replied promptly that they were heading towards Bamberton.

“Just where I want to go,” whispered Philip to the Captain. “Now—I don’t want to get you into trouble, old friend—as you would most assuredly, if I were found in your company. Therefore, you can drop me here by the roadside, and go on without me.”

“I’m damned if I do!” said the Captain, sturdily.

“But you must,” replied Philip. “If I remain here, I shall certainly be taken, quite apart from getting you into difficulties. On the other hand, if I drop out in the darkness, I can lie close under a hedge until they’ve gone by. And you, for your own satisfaction, can give them a false direction.”

This last point appeared to settle the matter with the Captain; Philip left him chuckling hugely to himself. Just as the caravan was beginning to move on again and while Philip lay crouched behind a hedge, the gig dashed up, and drew rein within hearing of him.

“Wot!” exclaimed the Captain, in a voice of apparent indignation, the moment he heard that a prisoner was missing, and was believed to have taken the road to Bamberton—“You don’t mean a tall clean-shaven dark chap, without a ’at?” On being assured that that was a correct description of the fugitive, the Captain became more indignant than ever.

“If you goes along that ’ere road to the left, about a ’underd yards further back—you’ll nab ’im—sure as eggs,” he exclaimed. “’E was runnin’ like a good ’un—tol’ me ’e was a doin’ it for a wager. W’en you ketches ’im, guv’nor—’it ’im one fer me—will yer—for a tryin’ ter deceive.”

“I should like to have a look inside your caravan,” said the man, quietly, jumping down from the gig.

“W’y—certainly,” responded the Captain. “It’s a nice roomy place, pervided yer don’t git yer feet in the fireplace. I’d ’ave ’ad it painted special, if I’d knowed you was comin’.”

The man looked in at the open door of the vehicle; looked sharply at the Captain, and at the driver; and climbed into the gig again.

“Drive on,” he said; and the gig turned back on the road it had come.

“Drive on, mess-mate,” said the Captain, climbing into the caravan.

Philip Chater, lying behind the hedge, watched the two vehicles until they were out of sight in the darkness; then, when there seemed nothing more to be feared, he crept out, and struck off towards Bamberton.

“What was the message?” he muttered to himself. “‘I love him—and believe in his innocence.’ Dear girl! I’ll see you to-night—if I die for it!”