With the best part of fifty pounds in his pocket, Jabez Crane took counsel with himself as to which portion of the civilised or uncivilised world he should next honour with his presence. That there was all-round prejudice against his remaining in London seemed, from what his sister had said, tolerably certain. And, in truth, he confessed to himself that even Lambeth had its limitations as a place of residence.

And so, on the following morning, he set out for the office of the Beaver line of steamers, which, as is well known, ply between the ports of Liverpool and Montreal, with the intention of booking a steerage passage in the next boat leaving for that port, and with a vague notion of gradually making his way thence into the heart of the gold-bearing country, about which the more fabulous tales had percolated recently, even to the remote habitation of Mother Mandarin.

His berth secured, Jabez turned his steps towards the Strand, He had not walked far when the thought struck him that he was in a position to afford a penny 'bus. Putting his thought into action he mounted one. At the bottom of Fleet Street he saw something that caused him considerable surprise. There, sitting inside the same omnibus, reflected in a more than usually shiny plate-glass window, was the familiar form of Shorty. Shorty too, then, had been able to afford a penny ride! Strange! It was the second time he had come upon him unexpectedly that morning. At Temple Bar, where he alighted, there was no longer doubt in Jabez' mind. Shorty was following him—had been following him ever since he left Lambeth. Turning suddenly on his heel he made straight for the youth, and seized him by the collar.

"'Ere," whined the quondam Gideon Anab, struggling to get free, "lemme go, carn't yer; I'll kick yer shins to bits if yer don't.

"You young gaol-bird," said Jabez, holding him all the tighter, "what d'ye mean by coming after me like this?"

"I want to tell yer something if ye'll only stop!"

"And must you follow me half over London to tell me something—you—out with it, what is it?"

"It's about Garson; 'e's arter yer!"

"After me? What d'you mean?"

"Step round 'ere into this 'ere back street and I'll tell yer. But yer'll 'ave to give us a quid!"

They moved down into Essex Street. Jabez felt half inclined to yield. But he thought better of it.

"Look here, young man, I should have thought you'd ha' known better than to try your beastly hanky panky business on with me. You'll just tell me anything you know, and I'll reward you afterwards according to what I think it's worth; d'you see?"

"Well, you'll say it's worth a tidy bit I reckon. I'll tell yer this much now; that Garson cove's only 'untin' yer to git 'em off 'is own track!"

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean as I seed quite enough down at that there Thorpe place to string 'im up if I liked to blab. But look 'ere, pal, you've got to treat me square on this job. You be at the shop to-night—there's too many coppers round about 'ere for my likin'. There's one of 'em got 'is eye on me already."

"Right you are—at Mother Mandarin's to-night. What time?"

"Oh, somewhere about eight, pal," and with a whistle, indicative of approaching danger, Mr. Shorty made his way towards the Embankment.

Jabez was both astounded and relieved. At last he began to see Mr. Farren's game. It was running the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance. But he'd be one too many for him this time. Still, even so, he felt far from secure. He had not seen Farren all the morning, and there was always the possibility he might already have betrayed him. He had more than half a mind to leave Euston by the late night mail. He could do so and still be at Mother Mandarin's at eight.

Meanwhile Shorty made his way along the Embankment at a rate for him prodigious, and in less than half an hour from the time of his parting with Jabez had reached his destination—Great Scotland Yard.

Jabez, having completed sundry minor purchases for his voyage, rewarded himself by dropping into a public-house and drinking (to himself again) bon voyage. That done, he called for his pipe and another bowl, accompanied on this occasion by pens, ink, and paper. He was feeling very nervous about Farren, and had made up his mind that any betrayal by that mysterious gentleman should not go unpunished, even though he, the betrayed, were not there to punish him. With such retribution in view, he ran off a letter to Miriam, the contents of which would be all sufficient to secure unto Mr. Farren the chastisement he would so richly deserve. For the whiling away of the remainder of the afternoon he had to fall back on such attraction as his host was able to offer in the shape of Scotch Whisky.

That such was sufficiently powerful seems proven by the fact that the clock was striking seven, and Jabez was with difficulty restrained from striking the clock, when he picked up his parcels and made for "home." His progress was of necessity somewhat leisurely, and by the time he arrived there most of his "indecision" had passed off. Mother Mandarin was out; and the room was empty save for one man in a long cloak, who sat before the fire warming his hands.

"You?" cried Jabez, as he recognised his friend Garson, alias Farren, and as he very much feared, alias Judas. "You here?"

"And why should I not be?" replied the man coolly. "Is it not my custom to smoke a pipe on occasions?"

"I mean, are you alone?"

"I am always alone," replied Farren in the most melancholy voice.

Jabez closed the door, and taking up a stool sat down near to the man. The glimmering lamp overhead cast its flickering light over both of them. Outside the wind was howling, and shook the crazy window frames. As he looked at his companion, Jabez felt a sense of satisfaction in that he had despatched that note to Miriam—the man was so sinister looking. For a time there was silence between them. At last Farren spoke.

"What has become of our good hostess?" he asked. "I hunger for my pipe. Glorious comfort! What should we poor devils be without it? At least, we have always that—our Paradise if fleeting can be reached for the asking."

Jabez was taking no notice of what he said. He seemed indeed not to hear. His thoughts were concentrated upon himself and his probable fate at the hands of the man opposite to him, had it not been for the timely warning of his sister. At last he had to give voice to them.

"Look here, Mr.—Mr. Farren——"

He looked up quickly at the mention of his name.

"Who told you that?" he asked slowly.

"My sister, Miriam——"

"Miriam Crane, or I should say Mrs. Gerald Arkel? So she told you, did she? And how did she come to know?"

"Her friend, Mrs. Parsley, wife of the Vicar of Lesser Thorpe, saw you with me in West Kensington the other day."

"Mrs. Parsley!—how well I remember her. And so she remembered me? To her I owe my resurrection?—an energetic old lady, Mrs. Parsley, if I recollect rightly. Dear me, how long ago it all seems!"

"You admit you are Farren?"

"Assuredly so—to you. I would admit anything—to you. You are to me a cypher, Mr. Jabez Crane; a plaything, if I so wish—for I hold you here—here, in the hollow of my hand. Do you begin to comprehend?"

"Oh yes, I comprehend; you are Barton's spy. You know my secret. But why should you want to betray me? We have been friends. I have done you no harm. You've nothing to gain by it. Why round on me?"

"I have no wish to, friend."

"That's a lie, and you know it. You have been watching me—tracking me here, there, and everywhere, like the dirty spy you are!"

"So you take me for a Judas? Have I asked you for money?"

"No!"

"Then take my warning, friend, and turn me not into an enemy—take further warning from me too, and go. You have the money now. And there is danger, I can tell you—danger for you here!"

"Danger—yes, there is danger, thanks to you. But understand, Mr. Farren, that neither you nor living man ever takes Jabez Crane alive. Oh, I know you for what you are, you fawning Judas. Look out for yourself. If you do your devil's work, and I have to shuffle off, it will not be alone. I have made it all secure. I've not forgotten to execute my last will and testament, and all I have to leave I've left to you. Do you know what kind of legacy it is, Mr. Farren? I'll tell you—the legacy of death! When the end comes to me it will mean your arrest."

"Arrest, friend? For what should they arrest me?"

"For the murder of George Barton. You were followed on that Christmas night, Mr. Farren. You were admitted by that old man into his library; and when you strangled him there at his desk, you were not quite alone, although you thought you were. When I killed it was in self defence. You are a cold-blooded murderer!"

"Fool—fool—fool; three thousand times a fool! to turn on me your friend. I know whence came all this. It is ordained that I should be persecuted throughout my life. But heed now what I say, for I know all. It was the youth Shorty told you this. My hands are innocent of blood, friend. The youth Shorty is your enemy. He is the Judas—not me! He is devoured by lust for gold; this very day he has denounced you to the police. What I say is truth, friend—the time is short for you. Last night in yonder corner he heard all. He knew a deal before, for Shorty has been expert long in crime. You thought he slept. He never sleeps so heavily but that he can hear the chink of gold, be it ever so far away. Last night he heard it. And this day is he gone to grasp it. Your time is short, friend."

With a gasp Jabez raised his hand to his forehead. For the moment he was completely dazed. He could hardly believe his ears; and yet there came upon him the conviction that this man was speaking the truth. Yes; it must be true. He was hemmed in all round. That boy——

"Where is he?" he cried. "Where is he? Let me put hands on him, and——"

"Stop, friend—that way lies the end of all things for you. Go while there is time. I came here after you had left last night. The boy and his grandmother were then in greedy contemplation of the price upon your head. To-day it would be theirs—to-day it may be theirs! Go, I say, while there is time."

A fearful gust of wind shook the house. Jabez shied like a frightened horse. There were voices below. His ears were so sharpened he could hear them through the wind. There was he, a rat in a trap. The whole position revealed itself to him in an instant. In silence he clasped warmly the outstretched hand of Farren. It was life or death for him now he knew. Hardly touching the steps he slid down by the railing to the courtyard below. Voices were all around him. He could see two men groping their way. The night was thick and dark. There was a shout, and a figure he well knew threw itself upon him. It was Mother Mandarin. He struggled to get free.

"No, dearie, no; you must stay now with your old aunty who loves you. Shorty and the nice gentleman in blue have something pretty to say to you."

"Let go, you hag, or I'll——" With a wrench and a kick he freed himself, and made a dash for the river. It had been his friend before—it would be his friend again.

Two constables were close upon him. The people, attracted by the noise, were gathering in a crowd. The end of the lane was blocked. There remained only the wharf end free. He could hear Shorty's voice above the rest.

"'E's orf; 'e's orf! 'E carn't git out that way. 'Urry up there, copper!"

Then a policeman's whistle was blown three times. The rain was falling in torrents, and the wind was almost tropical in force. Down towards the wharf tore Jabez, Shorty close behind him. The police were never in the running. As he reached the stream, and saw its surging surface sweeping seaward, for a moment his nerve failed him. Could he hope to live in that seething caldron?

There was no choice—he must risk it.

"'Ere 'e is—'ere 'e is!" yelled Shorty. "No you don't—not that way!"

With a shout he threw himself on Jabez and clung to him like a limpet. There was a wild struggle.

"'Elp, 'elp!" roared the boy.

Cautiously the police crept along the crazy old wharf, which was straining every timber in the gale. The two men struggled on—the one for gold, the other for dear life and liberty. There was a cry of terror and a hoarse roar of rage. Then a thud, and after that a splash, and the inarticulate sounds of two human creatures locked in each other's arms—gone to their death together.

And the voice of baulked humanity was hissed down by the roar of the storm.