Philip Chater, after being tumbled so unceremoniously out of the fly, lost no time in scrambling to his feet, with the aid of Captain Quist and the man of the melancholy visage. He found some difficulty in getting up on his own account, by reason of the handcuffs which still adorned his wrists. The Captain, now that his first lament was over concerning the wonderful silk hat, picked up the wreckage of his headgear out of the dust, and became in a moment the resolute man of action.

“Phil, my lad,” he said, briskly—“we ’aven’t got a moment to throw away. At the rate that there ’oss is a goin’, they’ll be in Chelmsford, with the town roused, in about ’arf an hour; and then they’ll begin ter scour the country, if yer like. Luckily it’s dark, an’ the moon ain’t a showin’ ’er face as much as she was; so we’ll cut straight across these ’ere fields, an’ lie close for a bit at the circus. Lor’—wot a lucky thing it is that I took to ’osses an’ sawdust!”

Philip was hurried along so rapidly, and assisted over stiles and through gates and hedges at such a pace, that he found it quite impossible to ask any questions. The Captain kept an arm tightly locked in his, as though he feared Philip might escape again, on his own account; while the melancholy man scouted in advance, on the lookout for possible surprises. In this order, after going at a great rate for some half hour or so, they came to a place where a few lights were gleaming among trees, and some shadowy figures moving to and fro. In the pale light of the moon, a huge tent stood up as a background to the picture, the front of which was occupied by one or two smaller tents, and a couple of caravans. Without stopping for anything, the Captain dived in amongst these, pulled open the door of one of the caravans, and motioned to Philip to go in.

The place was dimly lighted by a little oil lamp hung at one side; Philip recognised it, at the first glance, as the caravan in which he had escaped from Chelmsford. The Captain and the melancholy man following him in, the latter closed the door carefully, while the former produced from a little locker, various bottles and glasses with a smiling face.

“Not a word, Phil, my boy,” said the Captain, in a hoarse whisper—“till sich time as you gets a drop of summink warmin’ inside yer. You’ve ’ad sich an uncommonly lively time lately, an’ ’ave bin tumbled about to that extent, as it’s a marvel ter me if you ’ave any system left at all. So down with it, Phil, my lad—with the noble sentiment—(I feels like a boy-pirate meself!)—‘Confusion to the perlice!’”

“I am more grateful to you, old friend, than I can say,” said Philip, “and, if I can get these bracelets off, I shall be able to drink, or to do anything else with greater ease. However, I’ll drink to the toast with all my heart.” He raised the glass in both his manacled hands, with a laugh.

“We’ll ’ave them little ornyments orf in ’arf a jiffy,” said the Captain, diving into the locker again. “We guessed you might ’ave summink of that sort, as a little delicate attention from your friends—so we got pervided accordin’. ’Ere’s a file from our ’andy-man’s tool-bag; an’ I reckon I’d best ’ave a go at the rivets.”

The Captain set to work at once; nor would he utter a word, in reply to any questions, until the handcuffs were removed. It took some considerable time, and while the filing went on, Philip noticed that the melancholy man kept his eyes fixed upon the floor—only occasionally indulging in that extraordinary cough, with which he had been afflicted at the Chater Arms.

At last, the handcuffs being safely put out of sight, the Captain, turning to the melancholy man, said abruptly—“Now then, Skerritt, my boy—let’s know ’ow this ’ere affair was brought orf for the infermation of Mr. Chater. This, Phil,” he added, “is a man as is to be trusted with anythink—from untold gold to w’iskey—a man as formerly sailed under me, an’ ’as joined me, as a sort of depitty clown. I’ll own,” added the Captain, in a hoarse whisper behind his hand to Philip—“I’ll own as ’e don’t look it—but ’e’s got a way with ’im, w’en ’e’s painted up, as would fairly astonish yer.”

Mr. Skerritt immediately plunged into an account of his doings, and of how he contrived to meet Philip; explaining it all with many of those curious sounds before referred to, and with much rolling of one melancholy eye. He had a curious funereal voice, as though it had sunk below the usual level at some period, of great depression, and had never been got up again.

“The Cap’n ’avin’ passed the word as there were a shipmate in distress, I started out fer ter sight ’im; got wind that ’e might be expected in Bamberton—wind an’ tide bein’, so ter speak, favourable. The Cap’n ’ere come as far as the cross-roads wi’ me an’ we arranged signals. Then I ’eard a fair rumpus in the village, an’ got up jus’ in time to see the perliceman a bein’ pounded in the ribs by a ole gent in his stockin’ feet, an’ Mr. Chater a layin’ about proper among the lubbers as was a tryin’ to ’old ’im. I shoves meself for’ard, an’ manages ter git with ’im an’ the perliceman, w’en they starts fer Chelmsford. The rest ’e knows.” Here Mr. Skerritt laughed again, in that peculiar fashion of his, and looked more melancholy than ever.

“But, Captain,” urged Philip—“you don’t seem to realise what a risk you run, in thus defying the Law, and befriending a man who is an outlaw. My debt to you is greater than I can pay; and I cannot permit you to run any further danger on my account.”

“’Old ’ard—’old ’ard, mess-mate,” cried the Captain. “’Osses or no ’osses—circuses or no circuses—I stan’ by a friend. I confess I don’t understan’ the business—an’ I don’t like you a runnin’ under false colours; but you’ve give me yer word as ’ow you’re innocent; an’ I’ll continue for to rescue yer, once a week, if necessary—till further orders. I don’t take no notice of objections or risks; rescue yer I will, agin yer will or with it. An’ now, Phil, as we starts early to-morrer mornin’, I’d advise yer to turn in, an’ git wot sleep yer can. An’ in order that yer may sleep with a easy mind, there’s some one as I’d like yer ter see, afore I battens yer down for the night.”

So saying, the worthy Captain opened the door cautiously, and crept down the steps. In a few moments, the door was opened again, by another hand; and a light figure darted in, and fell at Philip’s feet. It was Clara Siggs.

He was so astonished and so delighted at this unexpected meeting, that, as he raised her from the floor, and looked into her eyes, he bent his head, and kissed her, quite on an impulse.

“My dear girl,” he said—“this is the best part of all—to know that you are safe and well, and in good hands. Tell me—how did you come here?”

“Mrs. Quist, with whom I lodged at Chelmsford, gave up her house, and came to join the Captain. She has made up her mind to travel about in future with her husband—to look after him a little, I fancy”—Clara laughed softly as she spoke—“and so I came with her.”

“I saw your mother a few hours since,” said Philip, watching the girl intently as he spoke—“and assured her that you were with friends, and well cared for. When will you return to her?”

She looked up at him quickly for a moment, with a half reproachful expression on her face. “When you tell me to go,” she said, slowly.

“No—not when I tell you, child; but when your own heart tells you. I wouldn’t have you think me ungrateful, for the world; I wouldn’t have you think that I undervalue, in any way, your sacrifice for me, or your valuable help in my time of greatest need; I shall remember it all, while God gives me memory to remember anything. But I should be a brute and a coward, if I took advantage of it—or of you. You are very young, and have, I trust, a long and happy life before you; my life seems to be going down in shadows. More than all else, I want you to think that the Dandy Chater who lingered with you in the woods, and whispered foolish things to you, is not the Dandy Chater who holds your hands now, and speaks to you out of a full and grateful heart. Perhaps—who can tell, child?—perhaps trouble and suffering have altered him—have made him see many things in a better light; perhaps he’s a different man altogether.”

She was weeping quietly, with her head bowed down on the hands he held; but she did not interrupt him.

“There’s an old mother at home, waiting to welcome back the pretty child she brought into the world, and has held so often in her arms; there’s a grey-headed father, who loves you; and there’s some one else—a good-hearted lad, with never a stain upon him—who loves you, too, as you deserve to be loved. Now—when does your heart tell you you must go back to them?”

“I—I understand,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I’ve had time to think, during these few days—and this wild and foolish heart of mine seems to beat for them—for him—more than it ever did before. I should like to go back to them at once—to-morrow—now that I know you are safe. But will they understand?”

“Your mother will understand everything,” said Philip, with a smile.

For three days, Philip Chater remained with the circus—keeping hidden during the day, and only venturing out at night. During that time, he had some narrow escapes from re-capture; once, he lay under a tarpaulin which had been flung hurriedly over him, and heard a constable making minute enquiries concerning the missing Dandy Chater, while Captain Peter Quist gave as minute replies. Realising, however, that he could not remain hidden much longer, and being fully aware of the risk which was run so cheerfully by the Captain, and those associated with him, he determined to get away, and to let what risk and danger there was be upon his own shoulders.

He knew well, however, that the Captain would never consent to his departure; and would be mortally offended at the mere suggestion of such a thing. Therefore, he determined to steal away, without giving any warning of his intention. Clara Siggs, under a safe escort, had gone back to Bamberton; and the circus was already making arrangements to move on further afield.

Accordingly, quite late at night, when all the people connected with the circus were sleeping, he started to make his escape. He had absolutely refused to occupy the caravan originally intended for him, because he knew that, by so doing, the Captain and Mrs. Quist would be rendered practically homeless; after much contention about the matter, it had been arranged that he should sleep in a rough tent, and in the company of the melancholy one. And, on this night, he lay wide awake in the darkness, listening to the heavy breathing of that gentleman, and striving to make up his mind what course to pursue, when once he should be clear of the little encampment.

Fortunately, the melancholy man was a heavy sleeper, and Philip was able to creep past him, and get out of the tent, under the stars, without rousing him or any one else. Standing there, in the silence of the night, with only those faint points of light glimmering and winking above him, and no sound all about, save the distant barking of a dog, Philip wondered what he should do—to what point of the compass he should turn. So far as he knew, he stood absolutely alone, with all his battles still to fight. But even now, with a full knowledge of the dangers through which he had passed, and the dangers he had still to face, Bamberton—the scene of all his troubles—drew him like a magnet.

The circus had moved on, some fifteen miles to the westward of the village; but Philip had kept careful note of the route taken, and was able to set out at once, by the most direct road. There was but small fear of his meeting any one, in the middle of the night; but, for all that, he was watchful and suspicious of every sound.

He made straight for the Chater Arms, and reached it at about five o’clock in the morning; lying concealed at a little distance, he waited until he saw Betty herself throw open her window, and show her blooming face to the fresh morning sun; creeping near, he signalled to her, and in a few moments she appeared at the door leading into the yard, and beckoned to him.

Before a word was spoken, she drew him inside, and hugged him in her hearty fashion, and wept a little in quite a womanly one.

“Clara is with you?” was his first question.

“Yes—an’ as well as well. But, my dear boy, wot brings yer back to Bamberton?”

Philip hurriedly explained his reasons for leaving Captain Quist—reasons which Betty cordially approved.

“You won’t need to worry yerself a bit, deary,” she said—“’cos that there idjut Tokely ’as took ’isself back to Scotland Yard—an’ there ain’t nobody in the ’ouse, ’cept a drunken little wretch wot seems to ’ave plenty of money, an’ is goin’ on in a fair way to empty my bar. An’ of all the strange things”—she stopped suddenly, and looked at Philip, and clapped her hands together; “Phil, dear lad,—to think that you an’ ’im should ’ave come together, at this time, in this place, an’ with ole Betty under the same roof!”

Philip stared at her in astonishment. “Why, little mother”—he said, laughing—“what on earth are you rambling on about?”

“Not ramblin’ at all, deary—but jus’ speakin’ of plain honest facts. The man who’s sleepin’ upstairs now is a chap—a Doctor—by the name of Cripps——”

“Not the Cripps of whom you told me, Betty!” cried Philip, excitedly. “Not the man who was paid to keep the secret of my birth?”

“The very same,” cried Betty, with equal excitement. “Why—Phil, dear lad——”

“Don’t waste a moment, Betty,” he cried—“I must see this man at once.”

“But ’e’s in bed—an’ sleepin’ like a pig; it took Toby an’ another man to get ’im upstairs las’ night—an’ ’e fought all the way.”

“I don’t care if he’s in bed—or where he is,” said Philip—“I must see him.”

Persuaded at last that the matter was really urgent, Betty led the way upstairs—pointed to a door—and hurriedly retired. Philip Chater, after knocking once, and getting no response, turned the handle and went in.

Dr. Cripps must have gone to bed, as suggested by Betty Siggs, in a state of considerable excitement. His dilapidated clothing was literally all over the room, as though he had stripped it from his person, and hurled it in all directions. He was hanging half out of bed, as though he had made a vain attempt to stand on his head on the floor, and had fallen asleep before accomplishing it; so that his countenance, at all times an inflamed one, was literally purple. Philip, in his impatience, hurried towards him, shook him into an upright position, and spoke his name.

The unfortunate Cripps, awakened thus hurriedly from his slumbers, and having no time to collect his thoughts properly, saw before him the man who had been the cause of all his miseries and troubles, and remembered nothing of that solution of the mystery at which he had so opportunely arrived. Indeed, the fifty pounds he had earned—or obtained—from Madge Barnshaw was going far to make him a greater wreck than before; for he was melting it into a liquid form, as rapidly as mortal man could.

Staring, in those first moments of semi-consciousness, into the eyes of Dandy Chater, as he supposed, he beat him off with both hands, shrieked aloud, and made for the window. Philip had only just time to catch him round the waist; in another moment, he would have gone head first into the yard below.

“Steady, my friend—steady!” exclaimed Philip, putting the terror-stricken man into a chair, and getting between him and the window. “What are you frightened at? What’s the matter?”

Cripps looked at him for a moment or two, and then his face gradually changed. “You came—came on a man so suddenly,” he said. “But I see now; I suppose you’re the other one.”

Philip laughed. “Yes,” he said—“I’m the other one. You know all about me, Cripps; you know that I’m a fugitive from justice—and you know, better than any one, that I am innocent, and am suffering for my brother’s sins. I suppose you know that he is dead?”

Cripps nodded. “Fished him out of the river myself, with a beastly sailor-man, who dragged me into it by sheer brute force,” he replied. “And, ever since then, you’ve been appearing to me as a ghost—and frightening me out of what few wits I have left. Now—what are you going to do?”

“First,” said Philip, sitting down near him—“I want to assure you that I am your friend; I want to plead with you to help me—to work with me to bring this business to an end. Who knows the real story, except yourself?”

“No one,” said Cripps after a moment’s thought—“except the woman who took you to Australia.”

“And she will say nothing, I know,” replied Philip. “Now there is a man—a cousin of mine—named Ogledon——”

Cripps shook a feeble fist in the air. “Ogledon is a scoundrel—a devil,” he cried. “Ask him how Dandy Chater—your brother, mind you—met his death?”

“If you know anything of that, Dr. Cripps—in mercy tell me!” exclaimed Philip.

“Ogledon killed him; that much I know, from his own lips,” said the little man, after a pause. “You see, you have taken his place so neatly, that it has never occurred to anybody to imagine that Dandy is dead. I was always sorry for Dandy—oh—don’t laugh at me; I’m a drunken little creature, of no good to any one—but Dandy would have been all right, if it hadn’t have been for Ogledon. Ogledon took him, when he was a mere lad, and moulded him as he would. And then killed him to finish it. But there’s worse than that.”

“Worse!” cried Philip. “What do you mean? What can be worse than that?”

“Do you know a young girl named Marnham? No—Barnham—Barn——”

“Barnshaw?” asked Philip, with his heart beginning to beat uncomfortably fast.

“Barnshaw it is. Lives at a house near here. Well—Ogledon’s been sweet on her for a long time, although, from what I hear, she would have nothing to say to him.”

“Heaven bless her! I should think not, indeed!”

“Well—Ogledon made up his mind to get hold of her; he has sent her an urgent message to go to him, on the plea that he can explain about you.”

“About me?” said Philip, in astonishment.

“Yes—or rather about Dandy Chater. That was the message: ‘I can tell you the truth about Dandy Chater.’ At least, so the Shady ’un told me.”

“The Shady ’un? What has he to do with it?”

“Everything. He has been trusted by Ogledon with the message; I saw him this very afternoon, when he came in here to enquire the way—having missed it somehow or other. And Miss Barnshaw has gone back with him.”

Philip Chater drew a deep breath. “Steady now, Cripps; let’s have this thing straight. You say the Shady ’un has taken Miss Barnshaw to Ogledon. Where is Ogledon? Where are they to meet?”

“At a hut on the river bank, near The Three Watermen,” replied Cripps.

“Where Dandy Chater met his death!” muttered Philip to himself. “Cripps, get into your clothes; we’ll follow them at once!”