Dr. Cripps—partly from excitement, partly from sheer vindictiveness against Ogledon—was only too ready for the expedition. Indeed, both men were so eager for it, though each for a different reason, that Philip almost forgot the caution that was necessary, in his own case; he would have started off, in broad daylight that very hour, to track down the man of whom he was in search, had not Cripps pointed out to him the madness of such a course.

“You see, my dear Chater,” he said—“you’ll get me into trouble, as well as yourself; it’s a dangerous thing to be running about the country with a notorious criminal—I beg that you will excuse the expression; but you really are a bit notorious, you know—and I have no wish to appear in the dock, for anything beyond my own private sins—and they are heavy enough, Heaven knows. So that, if I might suggest, I think it would be wiser for us to smuggle you to London, in some way or other—that is, if you are really resolved on going.”

“Of course I am resolved,” cried Philip, eagerly; “nothing shall turn me back. Cripps, I won’t believe you are so bad as men have painted you, or made you—or as you have made yourself. There’s a heart in you somewhere, and all the brandy in the world hasn’t washed it out of you.”

“Thank you,” said Cripps, in a low voice; and hung his head.

“Let me tell you this; that I love this girl with all my heart and soul; she is in danger—and I know that Ogledon will not hesitate to add another crime to his list. The question is (for you are right about the necessity for smuggling me) how am I to get to London?”

They decided to consult Betty Siggs forthwith; and, although that lady was at first very chary of holding any communication with Cripps, she cheerfully accepted Philip’s assurance that the little man was to be trusted, and set about devising a plan to help them. Taking Toby into her confidence, also, she brought him up to the room, where Philip and Cripps were waiting, and they put the case before him.

Toby Siggs thought about it for a long time; turned it over this way and that, but could make nothing of it. Betty, after all, settled the difficulty in her own quick fashion.

She happened to be standing near the window, looking down into the yard at the back of the inn; when she suddenly clapped her hands, and laughed aloud. “’Ere you are!” she exclaimed—“the very thing!”

Philip ran to her side, and looked down into the yard. A heavy wagon, laden with hay, had drawn into the yard, and the carter was at that moment climbing down, ready to enter the house.

“See, dear lad,” whispered Betty—“the man is a stranger, and ’alf a sov’rin will be a fortune to ’im, an’ ’e’ll ask no questions. You ain’t above roughing it—an’ you an’ the other man can creep in under the tarpaulin, and get to town, without no one bein’ any the wiser. It’ll be slow—but it’ll be better than bein’ caught ’arf-way, an’ ’avin’ yer journey for nothin’—won’t it?”

The plan seemed an excellent one; and Betty went downstairs at once to arrange it. The carter, being an easy fellow, earning small wages, was delighted at the prospect of gathering in ten shillings with so little trouble; and, in half an hour Cripps and Philip Chater were lying snugly on top of the sweet-smelling hay, under the tarpaulin, travelling slowly but surely on the road to London.

Cripps was very valiant—in whispers—on the road; professing his ability to run Ogledon to earth, and openly charge him with the murder of Dandy Chater. Repentance was strong upon him for the time, and he was ready to perform impossible deeds, by way of reparation for past misdeeds. In particular, he was anxious about the bank notes which had been handed to Philip at The Three Watermen.

“For of course I know, by this time, Mr. Chater, that they were handed to you,” he said—“and not to the man who is dead. Let me warn you, for your own sake, not to deal in them; they are stopped, and keenly watched for already.”

“The warning comes too late,” replied Philip, with a groan. “I dealt in them almost at once. I had to cover up a—well, call it a mistake—on the part of my late brother, and I paid away the notes as hush-money.”

“To whom did you pay it?”

“To a money-lender—a man bearing the distinctive name of Isaacson,” replied Philip.

“That sounds bad,” said the little man. “He would be sure to find out about the notes before any one. Have you heard nothing from him?”

“How should I? I have not been to Chater Hall since that time; Heaven knows how many letters may be waiting for me—or for Dandy Chater. At all events, it’s no use worrying about it, or wondering what is going to happen within the next twenty-four hours.”

The cart in which they travelled was heavily laden, and slow; and the carter stopped many times upon the road, on the strength of the ten shillings he had received, for refreshment. They chafed at the delay, but could do nothing; for they dared not express impatience, for fear of arousing suspicion. Worse than all, from the Doctor’s standpoint, at least, it was impossible for them to stir from under the tarpaulin, or to show themselves; so that, through the dust and heat of many hours, they had the melancholy satisfaction of seeing the carter bury his face in huge tankards of ale, whilst nothing came their way. At such moments as these, the Doctor buried his face in the hay, and positively groaned aloud.

It was quite late in the afternoon, when they came into London, and the cart was hacked into a huge stable-yard. There, another delay occurred; for night was still far off, and they dared not stir in daylight. Fortunately, the hay was not to be disturbed until the next morning, so that they lay there, listening to the busy noise of the streets, and longing for darkness.

Dusk at last, and the noises in the streets growing fainter. They had agreed upon their plan of action, and had decided to take a four-wheeled cab to Woolwich—choosing that conveyance, as being likely to attract less attention than a hansom—and then to walk to The Three Watermen. They slipped down the side of the hay wagon, and crept out of the stable-yard into the streets.

Philip dived into the first crawling “growler” he saw, leaving Cripps to give the necessary directions. Philip leaned back in the cab, as much out of sight as possible, and began to wonder, with fiery impatience, whether they would be too late—or whether they would miss those of whom they were in pursuit—or whether Madge had really come to London, and, if so, where she was at that time.

After a long journey through endless streets, Cripps stopped the vehicle, and they alighted. Philip found himself at the corner of a narrow and very dirty street, in a neighbourhood evidently of the poorest class—and yet a neighbourhood which seemed familiar.

“Now, Mr. Chater,” said the little man, who was evidently growing more nervous at every step they took—“Now comes the necessity for greater caution than ever. We—we may absolutely ruin everything, if we are too precipitate. We must find out first where Ogledon is, and whether or not he has gone to the hut spoken of by the Shady ’un. Ah—you don’t know what Ogledon is—or what he is capable of.”

“I can guess,” said Philip, quietly—“and that makes me the more anxious to get on without delay. How far are we from the place?”

“A hundred yards or so,” replied Cripps, who was beginning to tremble like a leaf. “You don’t—don’t feel that you would like—like to turn back, I suppose?”

“Turn back!” cried Philip with a grim laugh. “Turn back now—when I am within touch of this man! No—not if greater dangers than any I have met yet fronted me. Show me the way, wherever it may be!”

The Doctor led the way down a side street, which brought them, with another sharp turn to the left to The Three Watermen; Philip knew it in a moment.

“I know the way now,” he said—“I have been to the spot before. Come on—let us waste no further time.”

In his eagerness, he dived himself into that small alley-way, into which he had gone on that first night of his coming to the place. Only when he reached the end of it, did he look round for his companion; but Cripps was gone. His fears had been too much for him, and, watching his opportunity, he had fled. There was no time to wait for him, or to look for him; Philip made his way rapidly in the direction of those tumble-down out-houses he had noticed on the night he found his brother’s body.

Coming within sight of these, he suddenly stopped, and dropped down behind the shelter of a ruined boat, which lay half buried in the mud. For, at the door of one of those dilapidated buildings, stood the Shady ’un, as if on guard.

Probably Mr. Shadrach Nottidge had never been so surprised or terrified in all his life, as he was when a figure suddenly sprang up before him, and he felt himself caught by the throat, with a grip which threatened to choke him with the least possible delay. And, when he looked into the eyes of Philip Chater, and remembered how much cause that gentleman had for wreaking vengeance upon him, by reason of the treachery he had displayed in handing him over to the police, his fears were increased a thousand-fold.

“Now—you sly sneaking villain,” whispered Philip between his teeth—“you runner and crawler for other rogues—where’s your master?”

The Shady ’un, wholly unable to speak, by reason of that grip upon his throat, faintly moved his head in the direction of the hut.

“Is the lady you brought here with him?” asked Philip, in the same cautious voice.

The Shady ’un contrived to nod, and to screw his head again in the direction of the door; Philip, glancing at it, saw that it stood some two inches open. Giving the Shady ’un one final squeeze and shake, he flung him away, so that he fell on his back on the mud—gently pushed open the door—and crept in. The Shady ’un, the instant that Philip had disappeared into the hut, got slowly to his feet, and then scurried away in the darkness towards the streets.

Inside the hut, Philip found himself in a maze of poles, and ropes, and planks, and dusty tattered sails; gliding among these—(the shed had evidently belonged to a boat-builder, and had long been abandoned)—he peered past them into the shed itself, where a faint light glimmered.

As his eyes became accustomed to the twilight of the place, he saw that the light in it came from a guttering candle, thrust into the neck of a bottle, and stood upon a table. Near this table, and at the further end of the room, stood Madge Barnshaw. At the side of it nearest to where Philip stood concealed, and with his back towards the door, stood Ogledon. With his hands clasped behind his back, and his head thrust forward towards the girl, he seemed to menace her, even while he was silent. And yet, though he seemed to have her at his mercy, he had about him a dogged air of being at bay himself, and desperate. From the first words Philip heard, as he stood there in the darkness watching them, it appeared that Madge had only just reached the place, and was still ignorant of the full extent of her own danger.

“You sent for me in desperate haste, Mr. Ogledon,” she said—“to tell me about Dandy Chater—to tell me the truth about him.”

“Yes—I’ll tell you all the truth about Dandy Chater,” he said, sneeringly.

“I have taken a long journey, in the full hope that you might help him—that you might show me a way to prove his innocence, and set him free,” she said, in the same earnest pleading voice. “If you can do that—if you will help him—I will bless you from the depths of my grateful heart; I will believe that you are true and kind and generous; and I will beg you to forget any harsh thing I may ever have said to you.”

He moved nearer to the table, and leant his hands upon it, and looked at her across the flickering candle-light. “I have read somewhere,” he said, slowly—“in some book made for babes and sucklings—that the love of a woman will make an angel of a man—and raise him up, and exalt him. It’s a lie; no such thing ever happened. So far as I have loved, the love of a woman is a thing wherein are bound up hatred and bitterness and murder—and every devil-made thing that belongs to the darkness. They talk of a woman scorned; what think you of a man scorned? What think you of a man, who—eating his heart out for one smile—one word of tenderness from a mere slip of a girl—is met by looks which show him only disgust and repugnance? You thought it a fine thing to fling aside the love of a man like myself, and take up with a mere boy—didn’t you?”

“I never flung aside your love,” replied the girl, scornfully. “I told you, from the first, that I could not care for you—that I loved some one else. Had you been a gentleman—even a man——”

“A gentleman!” he sneered. “What has gentility to do with this business? It’s a question between a man and a woman—and you shall find that the man wins. Oh—my pretty maid—I swore a long time ago that no other man should stand between you and myself; I swore that I would have you, and would bend you as it pleased me—or break you. Yes—you’ve roused a lurking devil in me—and I’ll stick at nothing now. First—let us understand each other, in regard to Dandy Chater.”

He took a turn or two about the room, with his head bent, as though undecided what to say, or what to leave unsaid. At last, going to his former position near the table and standing there, he began to say what he had to say.

“You loved Dandy Chater—oh—don’t interrupt me; you would say you love him still, I suppose?—I knew that, from your own lips, as well as from what I saw and heard when you were together. I wonder if you would love him now—if you could see him?”

“I don’t understand you,” she said, in a low voice. “Why should I not?”

“Because—well because he wouldn’t look nice,” he responded, with a grim laugh. “In a word—because he’s dead.”

Through the mind of the girl there floated the words the little man who had accompanied Harry had spoken—“One is dead—the other living!” But she said nothing; she was almost afraid to speak, because she wanted so desperately to hear what he had to say in explanation of that mystery.

“Yes—he’s dead. He stood in my way—blocked up the path which led to my desires. More than that, I had made a tool of him for years—had used him for every mean and petty thing I did not care to soil my own hands with. He might have told tales. Do you know what I did with him?”

She looked at him with a face of horror, and slowly shook her head.

“Look round these walls—look at this miserable place in which you stand. It should have a value in your eyes; for it has heard his death scream. Within a dozen yards of it, on the bank of this river—at night—I struck him down. And I’d strike him down again to-night, if he stood alive before me. And you—you thought to defy a man who felt the killing of that puny lover of yours no more than he would have felt the killing of a rat!”

He had felt it, though—and he felt it still; or why did his hands tremble in their grip of the table, and why did he glance for a moment, with that blanched face, behind him?

She, too, began to fear him now, as she had not feared him before; looked about her wildly, as if for a way of escape.

“Ah—you shake and tremble now—do you?” he said, mockingly. “You’ll tremble more when you know what I intend to do. Think of it. You’re here, far away from any houses, and you may scream your heart out, and no one will hear you. Whatever love I felt for you has gone—turned into a viler thing. By God—pretty Miss Innocence”—he brought his fist down heavily on the table—“you shall dally with me an hour or two—for the first and last time; and then go join your lover in the river!”

He darted round the table towards her; but she evaded him, screaming, and made straight towards where Philip stood. Ogledon, in his mad rush, tripped and fell; and, at the same moment, Philip caught the girl, swung her round into the darkness where he had been standing, and stepped out into the light.

It was all done so rapidly, that Ogledon was on his feet, and had actually come on, with a blind rush, before he saw who stood in his path; and even then, he had no time to stop himself—scarcely time even to cry out. In a moment, Philip had him by the throat, and had forced him to his knees; bending over him, and looking full into his ghastly face, he spoke the first words that rose to his lips; re-assumed, for a moment, that character he had taken upon himself near that very spot but a week or two before.

“Dandy Chater is dead—is he? Struck down by your hand from behind in the dark—murderer! Do you look into his eyes now—in this place where you killed him—or will you still cry that Dandy Chater has not come back from the grave?”

The face into which Philip Chater looked, suddenly changed horribly; mouthed and chattered at him, in some unearthly tongue; and the head fell backwards. He felt the body relax, and droop under his hands; heard a sort of gasping cry; and then it slid out of his grasp to the floor. At the same moment, the door was flung open, and the place seemed full of people.

In the front of them were some constables—and, just behind them, the face of the Shady ’un. Philip had a dim idea that Madge had come out into the light, and was bending over the prostrate form of Ogledon. He knew, too, that handcuffs were on his wrists, and that he was strongly held by a couple of men. Some others had gone to Ogledon, and were raising him up.

“Yes—take me,” he cried, recklessly; “I don’t mind now; my innocence is proved. Look to that man”—he pointed towards Ogledon—“he knows my story; he is my chief witness!”

One of the men, who had been bending over Ogledon, got up and adjusted his chin-strap, and looked at Philip curiously.

“I’m afraid your witness won’t do you much good,” he said, shortly. “The man is dead!”