It must be confessed that Mr. Ogledon—better known, in some shady circles, as “The Count”—was in an awkward situation. For a whole week, he had secretly congratulated himself on the fact that his unfortunate cousin Dandy Chater was safely out of the way; moreover, he had carefully rehearsed the part he was to play, when first told of Dandy’s disappearance; had decided how best to show his pain and indignation, and his determination to hunt down the mystery, and find the murderer. In a word, he had carefully arranged so that no possible suspicion should fall upon himself; and now he discovered—to his consternation—that all these precautions were unnecessary, and that some ghastly replica of the murdered man had taken his place, and was accepted, by all and sundry as the genuine man. It must be said at once, that Ogledon, having no knowledge of the real story, and goaded by his own guilty conscience, found no solution in his mind of the mystery in any practical form. He saw, in this creature who had sprung up in the likeness of the man whose life had been brutally beaten out of him, only something horrible and intangible, come straight from the Land of Shadows, to mock at him, and drive him to distraction. If, on that lonely river bank, at the dead of night, the victim he had struck down lifeless had suddenly risen up in full vigour, unharmed and smiling, the murderer could not have been more appalled than he was by this quiet acceptance, by every one, of the figure which had stared through the window at him from the terrace of Chater Hall. Never for an instant suspecting the presence of the second man, that solution of the mystery did not occur to him; he saw in this Dandy Chater, risen from the grave, only his own embodied conscience, come to haunt and terrify him.

He remained that night in the dining-room with the Doctor; fearing to go to bed, or to be left alone for a moment. And, as the Doctor, whenever he got the opportunity, applied himself assiduously to the consumption of neat brandy, Mr. Ogledon as the time drew on towards morning, found himself pretty fully occupied in shaking his companion, and keeping him awake.

But day had its terrors, too; for the first person who entered the room made a casual and innocent enquiry concerning “Master Dandy,” and when he might be expected. Ogledon, dismissing this man with an oath, turned to the Doctor.

“Cripps,”—he shook the little man, for perhaps the hundredth time, the better to impress his meaning upon him—“Cripps—I’m going to make a bolt for it. I must get away, for a time, until this thing has blown over, and been forgotten. I shall go mad, if I stay here——Well—what do you want?”

This last was addressed to a servant, who had entered the room. The man informed him that a Mr. Tokely—connected, he believed, with the police—wished to see him.

Ogledon grasped the back of a chair, and turned a ghastly face towards Cripps. Telling the man to show the visitor in, he turned to Cripps, when they were alone together again, and spoke in a frightened hurried whisper.

“Stand by me, Cripps—stand by me, and back me up,” he said. “Ask what you will of me afterwards—only stand by me now.”

Dr. Cripps had the greatest possible difficulty, in his then condition, to stand by himself; but he feebly murmured his intention to shed his blood for his friend. And at that moment Tokely came in.

Now, in the stress of more personal matters, Ogledon had paid but little attention to the disjointed remarks of Mrs. Dolman, concerning the murder in the wood; and the subject had, by this time, gone clean out of his mind. Indeed, but one subject—a deadly fear for his own safety—occupied his mind at this time; so that it will readily be understood that the first words uttered by the Inspector were startling in the extreme.

The Inspector was not in the best of tempers, and was in no mood to be trifled with. He came in rapidly, closed the door and advanced towards Ogledon.

“Now, sir,” he began, “I don’t want you to compromise yourself about this matter; but business is business, and the Law is the Law. Touching this matter of Mr. Dandy Chater—this matter of murder——”

He got no further; as Ogledon, with a cry, turned swiftly, and made towards the door—Tokely turning, too, in his astonishment—Dr. Cripps, dimly and drunkenly realising that his patron was in danger, caught up the nearest weapon, which happened to be a heavy decanter, and, with a shrill scream, hurled himself upon the Inspector, and brought the decanter down with all his force upon that gentleman’s head. The unfortunate officer, with a groan, dropped flat, and lay motionless.

For a moment or two, Ogledon stood staring down at him, scarcely knowing what to do—while Cripps, mightily pleased with his performance, danced all round Tokely’s prostrate form, waving the decanter, and chanting a species of dirge. But, the seriousness of the position dawning rapidly upon Ogledon, he seized Cripps by the arm, wrenched the decanter from his grasp, and buffetted him into a sense of the enormity of his offence.

“You idiot!” he whispered, hoarsely—“a pretty thing you’ve done now. I might have stood and braved the thing out; there’s no proof against me—and suspicions are useless. But now, after this, there’s nothing for it but to make a bolt of it!—I suppose it’s my own fault, for having anything to do with a drunken little worm like yourself. Quick!—there’s no time to be lost; we must clear out of this. Come!”

Going to the door, he listened cautiously for a few moments, and then swiftly opened it. There was no one in sight, and he darted across the hall, and caught up his own and the Doctor’s hats and coats, and went back noiselessly. Tokely still lay without movement; and Ogledon dragged Cripps into his coat, and crammed his shabby hat on his head; put on his own outdoor things, and prepared to leave the place.

“Now, attend to me,” he said to Cripps. “I shall lock this door on the inside, and take the key with me; we’ll go through this window on to the terrace. If this fellow ever wakes again—of which I am extremely doubtful—it won’t be for an hour or so; and that will give us a fair start. Now—come quietly. This has been a devilish unlucky night, and it promises to be an unlucky day. I thought myself so safe; I don’t like the turn things have taken at all.”

Strolling quietly, until they were out of sight of the windows of the house, the two got clear away—Ogledon keeping a tight grip of the arm of his swaying companion. Indeed, it is possible that, before many hours had elapsed, the little man deeply regretted the part he had played in the recent adventure; for Ogledon walked him on, without mercy, mile after mile, and without paying the slightest attention to his many piteous entreaties to be allowed to pause at seductive-looking public-houses, for rest and refreshment. Later in the day, they came to a small station, within easy distance of London; and—dusty, weary, foot-sore, and ill-tempered, Cripps was glad to get into the corner of a third-class railway-carriage, and fall asleep.

Arrived at the terminus, Ogledon coolly announced to his companion that they must part. “I shall drive across London—get some dinner—and catch the night express for the Continent. You will not, in all probability, hear from me for some time. Good-bye!”

“But what—what is to become of me?” asked the little man, in dismay.

“I’m sure I don’t know—and I’m equally sure I don’t care,” responded Ogledon. “You’ve got yourself and me into this trouble; I’m going to get out of it—you had better do the same.”

“But I’ve no money,” said Cripps, appealingly.

“Ah—you should have thought of that before knocking policemen on the head with decanters. If you will be so giddy and youthful and frolicsome, you must take the consequences. Good-bye again; I hope they won’t catch you!” He turned and made his way out of the station; Cripps saw him jump into a cab, and disappear in the press of traffic in the streets.

Meantime, another traveller—a fugitive like himself—had set his face in the same direction; with no settled purpose in his mind, save to hide, until such time as he could formulate a plan of action. Not daring to trust to the railway, lest his description should have been telegraphed, and men should be on the lookout for him, Philip Chater had started off to walk to London. Coming, long after the sun was up, into a straggling suburb, which yet had some faint touches of the country left upon it, he sat down, outside a small public-house, on a bench—ordered some bread and cheese and ale—and ate and drank ravenously.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, with a little laugh—“yesterday was a busy day. We start with a burglary, and with the fact that Arthur Barnshaw has discovered me in a forgery, and—so he believes—in an attempt to steal his sister’s diamond necklace. Compared with what has gone before, these things are mere trifles.”

He laughed again, took a pull at his beer, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Let me see—what happened after that? Oh, to be sure; I went round, to try and have a word with old Betty; I hated the thought that she—dear little mother of the old days—should think so badly of me. I felt that I could trust her to keep my secret, if necessary. Then, after waiting about for a long time, that girl—(Clara—Harry called her)—came out, to tell me that the strange man I had seen through the window was from London, and probably held a warrant for my arrest. And then that jealous idiot Harry, must jump in, and come scouring over the country after me with the policeman in tow. Well, I got away that time at all events.”

He sat for some time, with a musing smile upon his face, stirring the dust at his feet with the toe of his boot. At the moment, he had clean forgotten the danger which threatened him, or the necessity for further flight.

“Dear little mother!” he whispered—“how glad she was to see me; how glad to know that her boy had come back again. I’m glad I went back to the place, after the policeman gave up the chase as hopeless. Heigho—I suppose I must be moving——Hullo—what the devil do you want?”

Some one had stopped before him—some one with remarkably old and broken boots. Raising his eyes rapidly upwards to the face of the owner of the boots, Philip Chater gave a start of surprise and dismay. The Shady ’un—looking a little more disreputable than usual—stood before him.

Going rapidly over in his mind the events of the past few days, Philip Chater tried to discover, in the few moments the Shady ’un stood silently regarding him, whether or not he was to look upon that interesting gentleman as a friend, or as a foe. Remembering the two encounters with Captain Peter Quist—the scene in the upper room at “The Three Watermen”—and the unwarrantable liberty taken with the Shady ’un’s headgear on that occasion, for the extinguishing of the light—Philip decided that the man had reason to be resentful. Accordingly, he waited for an attack—verbal or otherwise.

But the Shady ’un—for some reason of his own—was disposed to be friendly; feeling, perhaps, a certain warming of his heart towards one in misfortune—a brother in criminality, as it were—he turned a smiling face towards Philip Chater, and held out his hand.

“This ’ere is the ’and of a pal—an ’umble pal, if yer like—but still a pal. Strike me pink!” exclaimed the Shady ’un, in a sort of hoarse whisper—“but w’en it comes ter bread and cheese fer swells like Dandy—wot are we a comin’ to; I would arks”—he flung out one grimy hand, in an appeal to the Universe—“I would arks—wot are we bloomin’ well comin’ to?”

“Yes—it looks bad—doesn’t it?” replied Philip, still with a wary eye upon the other. “But one must take what the gods send—eh?”

“Well—they sends me a dry throat, an’ nuffink to wet it with,” said the Shady ’un, dismally eyeing the beer which stood on the bench beside Philip, with a thirsty tongue rolling round his lips.

“Well—I dare say we can remedy that,” responded Philip. “Go inside, and get what you want, and bring it out here; I should like to talk to you.”

The Shady ’un immediately vanished through the doorway, and was heard inside, explaining that his “guv’nor” would pay “the damage.” In a few moments, he emerged, bearing a tankard, and some bread and cheese; seated himself on the bench, and fell to with an appetite.

He disposed of his breakfast—if one may so describe it—at an astonishing rate; wiped his pocket-knife on his leg; and looked round, with a smirk which was probably intended as an expression of gratitude, at Philip.

“Tork away, guv’nor,” he said, with a glance towards the open door of the house.

“First,” said Philip—“tell me how you come to be here.”

“They took me, at the last moment, for that ’ere little job at Bamberton—the job of the di’monds. You was in that, Dandy—wasn’t yer?”

“Oh yes—I was in it,” replied Philip. “So I suppose that you—like myself—are making your way towards London?”

The other nodded. “The word was passed for us to scatter; an’ I’ve bin a scatterin’ all the bloomin’ night—I ’ave. I must ’ave bin close on yer ’eels most of the time, Dandy.”

There was a long and somewhat awkward silence between the two. Philip was debating in his mind as to how much to tell the Shady ’un, and how much to leave unsaid. The Shady ’un, for his part, having heard gathering rumours of that business in the wood, eyed his companion somewhat stealthily, and worked out a plan of action in his own fertile brain. He broke silence at last, by coming at the matter in what he thought a highly diplomatic manner.

“Beastly noosance—gels,” he said—staring hard before him.

“What do you mean?” asked Philip, glancing at him in some perplexity.

The Shady ’un drew a deep breath, and shook his head. “There you go!” he exclaimed, with considerable disgust. “No confidence—no trust—no confidin’ spirit about yer! Didn’t I say, a week ago, as you might come ter the Shady ’un, wiv a open ’eart an’ ’and; that ’e was the friend, if ever the Count should fail yer! Strike me pink!” cried the Shady ’un, with much earnestness—“did I say them words—or did I not?”

“I believe you said something of the kind,” replied Philip, after a moment’s pause.

“’Course I did,” said the Shady ’un, energetically. “An’ wot I said I sticks to. They calls me the Shady ’un; but I was c’ristened ‘Shadrach’—an’ ’ad a faver of the name of Nottidge. The Shady ’un may not be all as ’e should be; but Shadrach Nottidge is a pal, an’ a friend. Dandy, my boy—there’s ’emp-seed sowed for you—an’ well you knows it.”

Philip glanced round at him quickly, but said nothing. The Shady ’un drank some beer slowly, looking over the top of the tankard, and winked one eye with much solemnity. Setting down the beer, he ventured to lay one hand on Philip’s arm. “Yer ain’t treated me quite fair, Dandy—but I bears no malice,” he said, in the same hoarse whisper as before. “I ’ave bin chivvied by a pal o’ yourn—I ’ave bin knocked into a shop by that same pal—I ’ave ’ad a many things done wot ain’t strictly on the square. But I bears no malice, an’ I’m ready to ’elp yer.”

There seemed so much sincerity about the man, and Philip was so desperately in need of assistance at that time, that he resolved to confide in him. After all, he thought, the man knew the worst, and knew in how many other shady transactions Dandy Chater had been mixed up; to confirm his friendship would perhaps, after all, be a matter of policy.

“Well, then—understand this,” he said abruptly—“I’m flying for my life. There’s a warrant out against me for murder——”

The Shady ’un nodded comfortably. “I know—I know,” he said; “young gel—very much in the way—you ’its ’er a clump—say by axerdent. She don’t like it—an’ just to spite yer—goes dead. Lor’—that ain’t nuffink; might ’appen to a man any day. But I suppose the splits is out—an’ Dandy must make ’isself scarce?”

“Yes—that’s about it,” replied Philip.

The Shady ’un got up, and shook himself, with an air of resolution. “It’s a lucky fing I came acrost yer so ’andy,” he said. “You’d ’ave got nabbed in no time. The Shady ’un’s yer pal; stick to ’im—an’ all will be well.”

In his desperate extremity, Philip made up his mind to trust the man. By strange courts and alleys, and by unfrequented thoroughfares, they came at last to a wretched lodging, in the neighbourhood of the Borough—a lodging which appeared to be the private retreat of the Shady ’un in his hours of leisure. There, Philip Chater, utterly worn out, was glad to fling himself on a wretched bed, and fall asleep instantly.

For some minutes after he had begun to slumber, the other man stood looking down upon him, with an evil smile crossing his face; he even shook his fist at him once—bringing it so near to the sleeper’s head, that it was a matter for wonder that he did not actually hit him.

“This is a good chance fer me—this ’ere,” whispered the Shady ’un to himself. “Nice chap you are—to give yerself airs, an’ git yer pals to bang me about—ain’t yer? This little bit of business may stand me in all right, if I gets into trouble on me own. Yes—Dandy—I’ll make sure of you, right away!”

The Shady ’un—after assuring himself that Philip was sleeping heavily—left the place, and bent his steps in a direction they would not willingly have taken on any other occasion—to a police-station. Within a very little time, messages had flashed to and fro upon the wires; questions had been asked and answered; and a silent and taciturn sergeant, accompanied by a couple of constables, went back with the Shady ’un to his lodging.

Philip, waking from an uneasy sleep, saw the grim faces—the blue coats—the helmets of the Law; and knew that the game was up. The Shady ’un—after being quite sure that he was secured—drew near.

“These gents know me—an’ they knows as ’ow I’ve ’ad my little bit of trouble afore to-day. But my ’ands—look at ’em, gents, I beg of yer—my ’ands is free from blood—an’ sich-like wickedness. Gents—if ever the time should come w’en, for dooty’s sake, you should ’ave to be ’ard on me—you’ll remember this in my favour—won’t yer?”

“Oh yes—we’ll remember it,” responded the taciturn sergeant. “Come, Mr. Dandy Chater—we are quite ready.”

Late that night, Bamberton was stirred to its depths again, by the news that Mr. Dandy Chater was in close custody in the lock-up, with a special draft of constables to keep watch over him.