For a few moments Philip Chater sat gazing at Peter Quist, as though he half suspected that the man knew more than his guileless face proclaimed, and that he was playing a joke upon him. Seeing, however, that his friend appeared to be completely in earnest, and that he had simply answered his question as straightforwardly as it had been put, he merely remarked, in a surprised tone—

“Why—what takes you to ‘The Three Watermen’?”

“I was a cruisin’ about in these parts—bein’ near the water, and so comin’ more nateral like—w’en I turned in there for a toothful, an’ found they let beds. Wantin’ a bed—(for man were not made to sleep on the ’ard ground)—I took it. It looks over the river, an’ is cheap—which is a consideration.”

It suddenly occurred to Philip that he might well make use of this man, to discover whether or not it would be safe to venture into the place that night. If, as the Shady ’un had suggested, he was expected to arrive in company with the man known as the Count, and if, further, that man knew anything of the murder of the real Dandy Chater, Philip’s position was precarious in the extreme; indeed, safety only lay in the company of those people who were ignorant of the death of his twin brother.

“Look here, Quist,” he said, after a little hesitation—“I want you to do me a favour. At this same house where you have a lodging, a certain man is likely to be, in whom I have an interest. I can’t explain the full circumstances; but I am playing a desperate game, for a large stake, and it is essential that I should know whether this man is there or not; at the same time, I do not wish him to know—or, indeed, any one else—that I am making enquiries. Will you—to oblige a friend, drop a casual enquiry as to whether the Count is there?”

Captain Quist stared at him, in open-mouthed astonishment. “’Ere-’old ’ard, Phil, my boy; I’m afraid the beds at that ’ouse will be a bit too expensive for me. I thought it was a place w’ere a ordinary sailor-man might get a cheap lodging; but w’en it comes to a matter of counts——”

“Oh—you needn’t be afraid,” replied Philip, laughing. “The man I want is not, I suspect, a count at all—I think it’s merely a nickname.”

The Captain shook his head, and looked at his friend with a troubled countenance. “Phil, my boy,” he said, “I’m very much afraid you’re a gettin’ into bad company. In the ordinary course o’ nature, I don’t mind a little scrap in the street, or bein’ butted violent; but w’en you knows the lubber I’d nabbed, an’ ’e knows you by another name—I don’t like it. An’ now, ’ere’s another of ’em, also under a wrong flag. No, Phil”—the Captain was very emphatic about the matter—“I do not like it!”

“Very well,” said Philip, somewhat testily, “I won’t trouble you. If I had not been acting quite innocently in the matter, I would not have asked you to do this for me. I have no doubt——”

“Stop—stop!” broke in the Captain. “I never said I wouldn’t do it; I only expressed my opinion. Peter Quist ain’t the man to go back on a mess-mate, as you’ve found afore to-day. Trust in the old firm, Phil, my boy, and if there’s a count anywheres about Woolwich, I’ll lay ’im by the ’eels, as soon as look.”

Philip Chater urged upon him, however, the necessity for proceeding with caution; and, above all, making his enquiries in as casual a fashion as possible. It being now very near the time for keeping the appointment, the Captain, accompanied by Philip, set off on his quest; they parted near to “The Three Watermen,” Philip remaining in the shadow of an archway, to await the Captain’s return.

In a very short space of time—although it seemed long to the waiting man—Peter Quist hove in sight; coming along in a very mysterious and cautious manner, and keeping well within the shadow of the houses. He dived into the archway, dragging Philip with him; and there stood for some moments, in the semi-darkness, breathing hard, and shaking his head with much solemnity.

“Well,” asked Philip, impatiently—“what news?”

“I tell yer wot it is, young man,” replied the Captain, slowly—“you’ll be a gettin’ me into serious trouble, you will—alonger yer counts and things. I stepped into the bar, an’ I orders a drop of rum—just to ease conversation a bit; an’ I ses—off-hand like—‘’As the Count come in?’ The man was a drawin’ the rum, and ’e ses, without lookin’ up—‘No—nobody ain’t seen the Count for some days.’ Then ’e looks up—seems surprised—an’ ses—‘Who wants to know?’ I tells ’im a pal o’ mine was wishful to know about the Count. Well—Phil, my boy—the man looks at me very ’ard; and presently I see ’im a w’isperin’ to some one, wot ’ad slipped in on the quiet—an’ a lookin’ at me. So I strolls out—careless like—an’ I ’adn’t gone far, w’en I found as I was bein’ followed—and by the bloke as called you ‘Mr. Chater’ not an hour ago.”

“What—the Shady ’un?” exclaimed Philip.

“Shady or not, there ’e was; but I soon settled ’is business,” replied the Captain. “As ’e was a sneakin’ past a little shop, with steps a leadin’ down into it, I turns round on a sudden, an’ lands ’im one on wot I may call the fore-’atch—an’ down ’e tumbles into that shop. In fact,” added the Captain, with a fine air of carelessness—“the last I see of ’im, ’e was on ’is back, an’ the female wot kep’ the shop was a layin’ into ’im proper with a broom, an’ yellin’ ‘Fire!’ Accordingly, I left ’im, an’ cut on ’ere, as ’ard as I could.”

“You’re a good fellow,” said Philip, gratefully. “I must go on to ‘The Three Watermen’ at once, and trust to luck to bring me safely out of it again. If you will come on later, and take your lodging there in the ordinary course, I shall be glad; I might want to have such a friend near me. But, should you see me there, don’t recognise me, or take the faintest notice of me, unless I call upon you to do so. Will you undertake to carry out my wishes?”

Captain Peter Quist, though evidently much disturbed in mind, nodded slowly, in token that he would do as he was asked; and Philip Chater set out alone for “The Three Watermen.”

Guessing that the late Dandy Chater was probably well acquainted with the house and its inmates, Philip, for his own protection, determined to put on a moody sullen demeanour, and to lounge at the bar of the place until he was accosted by some one; he felt that he could take his cue more readily, if he led those who imagined they knew him to speak first.

In pursuance of this plan, he roughly pushed open the door with his shoulder, and lounged into the place—looking about him with an air that was half insolent, half quarrelsome. Making his way to the bar, he gave a curt nod to the man behind it, and gruffly ordered some brandy.

The man who presided there regarded him with a sort of obsequious leer; and took the opportunity to lean across the bar, and whisper huskily—“All gone upstairs, Mr. Dandy.”

“What the devil do I care where they’ve gone?” asked Philip, roughly.

“They’ll be expecting you, Mr. Dandy,” ventured the man, after a pause.

“Well—let them wait till I choose to go,” said Philip, in the same reckless manner. “I’ve been looking for the Count.”

“And he ain’t come,” replied the man. “They expected he’d come along with you. There’s something big afoot”—the man leaned over the bar to whisper this—“hadn’t you better go up and see them, Mr. Dandy?”

As a matter of fact, that was precisely what Philip Chater most desired to do; but, in the first place, he did not know which way to turn, or where to go; and, in the second, he had no intention of presenting himself before whatever company might be expecting Dandy Chater, in such a place as that, unannounced and unprepared. Therefore, trusting to the good-fortune which had not yet deserted him, he waited to see if some event would not occur, to prepare the way for him.

“I don’t care what’s afoot,” he said; “I’ll finish my brandy, and go when I choose.”

The man—who appeared to be the landlord of the house—advanced his face a little nearer, across the bar, and spoke in a wheedling tone. “I’m going up myself, Mr. Dandy,” he said, in a whisper; “perhaps you’d like to come up with me?”

“Oh—if you like,” replied Philip, carelessly; although this was exactly what he wanted. He felt that, from the tone the man had adopted, it was evident that the late Dandy Chater had been a difficult man to deal with. He determined to make what capital he could out of that.

The man—after calling gruffly to a draggled female in the inner room to come and attend to the bar—dived under the wooden flap in the counter, and stood beside Philip. The latter slowly and coolly drank his brandy, and even stopped to bite the end from a cigar, and light it—looking frowningly at the other, who stood waiting patiently at the foot of some dark stairs for him; all this to give himself time, and to carry out, as fully as possible, that idea, of which he had somehow possessed himself, that the late Dandy Chater had been a remarkably disagreeable fellow, and that it was necessary for his successor to keep up the character.

At last, having spun out the time as much as possible, he lounged after his guide, up the stairs; and was ushered by him, through a low doorway, into a room which, from the appearance of the single long projecting window, which took up nearly all one side, evidently gave on to the river. Round a table in this room, four men were seated, with their elbows upon it, and their heads very close together; the heads were turned, as the door opened, and a murmur—apparently of relief and recognition—broke simultaneously from the four throats. Philip Chater, observing, in that momentary glance, that they were all men of an inferior type to himself, from the social standpoint, carried off his entry with an air, and swaggered up to the table—still with that heavy insolence of bearing, which had seemed to have so good an effect upon the landlord below.

“Well,” he said, taking a seat at the table, and coolly blowing a cloud of smoke into the air—“what do you want with me?”

He noticed, as he spoke, that the man who had guided him to the room appeared to have a direct interest in whatever proceedings were afoot; inasmuch as that he took a seat at the table, quite as a matter of course.

“Where’s the Count?” abruptly asked one man—a tall, sandy-haired fellow, with grey eyes far too close together to make his countenance a pleasing one.

“The very question I was going to ask you,” replied Philip. “Do you suppose I’m the Count’s keeper?”

“Well—he left here with you last week,” replied the same man, in an injured tone. “We supposed he’d been staying with you as usual.”

“Then you supposed something that didn’t happen,” said Philip, in the same surly tone as before. “I’ve seen nothing of him since—since that night.” Then, a sudden thought occurring to him, he added—“I left him—down by the river.”

A shrill voice—piping, and thin, and unsteady—broke in from the other end of the table. Its owner was a little man, with a figure as thin and shrunken and unsteady as his voice—a man with no linen to speak of, who yet had whiskers, which had once been fashionable, on either side of his grimy face, and whose shaking hand affectionately clasped a glass of spirits. “A split in the camp—eh?” he squeaked out. “Ogledon and his cousin had a row—eh?”

Philip Chater was learning many things and learning them quickly. If Ogledon—the man expected at Chater Hall by the housekeeper—and the man known as the Count were one and the same person, and that person Dandy Chater’s—and his own—cousin, what had they both to do with these men, and why had both disappeared—the one murdered, and the other missing?

“Hold your tongue, Cripps,” exclaimed the man who had spoken first. “The Count knows his own business—and ours; I expect he’ll be here presently——”

(“I sincerely hope he won’t,” thought Philip.)

“In the meantime, if you’re sober enough, Doctor”—this to the man he had addressed as Cripps—“we’ll get to business.”

Philip Chater pricked up his ears; he remembered, at that moment, that Betty Siggs, in her disclosure to him of the story of his own life, had mentioned a certain drunken little doctor, of the name of Cripps, who knew the secret of his birth, and had been paid to keep it.

“You’ll be glad to know, Dandy,” went on the man, who appeared to act as a species of leader—“that the business at Sheffield has turned up trumps. We don’t mention names, even amongst ourselves; but the haul was bigger than we anticipated. The man behind the counter—you know who I mean—gets a thousand for handing over the flimsies; and gets it pretty easily, too, to my mind. The rest is divided out between us, except for your share and Ogledon’s. Here’s yours”—he handed a packet across the table to Philip—“and perhaps, as the Count hasn’t turned up, you’d better take his as well. Here it is.”

Philip took the two packets, inwardly wondering what they contained, and thrust them into his pocket, with a nod. As he did so he became aware that three of the heads had drawn together, and that whispers were passing amongst them, while three pairs of eyes were glancing in his direction. Quick to fear that some suspicion of his identity might have come upon them, he watched them covertly; while such phrases as—“The Count said nothing about him”—“I suppose we’d better tell him”—“He’ll know the country, at any rate”—and the like, fell upon his attentive ears.

“Now—what the devil are you plotting there?” he asked, angrily.

The sandy-haired man raised his head, and spoke hesitatingly. “Well, you see, Dandy, it’s a little matter the Count mentioned last week—but he didn’t say anything about you. He’s told off the men for it—and it’s a matter of a few diamonds, and only women to deal with. But the Count’s particular about one of the women—a young one—coming by no hurt. After all, it’s down your way, and he must have meant you to know what was going on. It’s for Friday, as soon after midnight as may be. There’s Briggs here, and myself, and Cripps, in case of accidents. He wrote the address, and a rough plan, so that we might find it without making enquiries. Here you are.” He tossed across the table a folded piece of paper as he spoke.

Philip’s hand had closed on the paper, and he was in the very act of opening it, when a confused sound of scuffling and angry voices came from outside the door. Looking round quickly, with the others, he saw the Shady ’un dart in—breathless and panting—and make a hasty attempt to close it; indeed, he got his back planted against it, while some one outside was evidently striving hard to burst it open, and pointed with a shaking hand at Philip Chater.

“Treachery—by God!” he gasped. “He’s put the splits on us!”

The man’s appearance, no less than his voice, and the words he had uttered, were sufficient to cause alarm. He was battered and bruised from his two encounters with the Captain, and with the woman into whose shop he had been so unceremoniously thrust, while his clothing—such as it was—had been almost torn from him, by his struggle with the unknown person against whom he still frantically held the door. At the very moment he spoke, this unknown one, proving too much for him, burst into the room, sweeping the Shady ’un aside, and revealed himself as Captain Peter Quist, without a hat, and in a great state of perspiration, disorder, and excitement.

Finding himself unexpectedly in the presence of half-a-dozen men—one of whom was Philip Chater—in addition to his late assailant, the Captain stopped, and looked round in some astonishment. At the same time, the Shady ’un, in an agony of spite and fear, backed away from him, and continued to gasp out his indictment.

“Seed ’em together all night, I ’ave. Dandy sent ’im ’ere, a spy in’ out fer the Count—an’ I——”

Philip Chater did not care to risk waiting to give any explanation to that company. In point of fact, he feared the honest Captain more than any man there; for he dreaded lest he should blurt out his knowledge of a certain Philip Crowdy, who was done with, and left behind in the past. Therefore, edging quickly near to the Captain, while he still kept his eyes on the other men, who had risen to their feet, he whispered quickly—

“Make a bolt for it!”

There hung from the ceiling, over the table, a single gas jet, with a naked light; Philip, with a quick movement, snatched the ragged hat from the head of the Shady ’un, who stood at his elbow, and dashed it straight at the light; the room was in darkness in a moment. He heard the men falling about, and stumbling over the chairs, as he darted through the doorway, and plunged down the stairs, with the Captain almost in his arms—for that gentleman had waited for him. The men were actually on the stairs, when the two fugitives darted through the bar, and into the street.

Rightly guessing that no attempt would be made to pursue them in the open street, Philip and his companion, after doubling round one or two corners, came to a halt, and sat down on some steps outside a church, to review their position.

“This comes of gettin’ into bad company, Phil,” said the Captain drearily, when he had recovered his breath. “A ’at—bought off a Jew gentleman, with nice manners, only last week; a brush and comb—the brush a bit bald, and the comb wantin’ a noo set of teeth; to say nothink of a night garment, ’emmed by the Missis, and marked with a anchor on the boosum—all lost at ‘The Three Watermen.’”

“I’m very sorry,” replied Philip, “but I think we got off pretty cheaply as it was. But I don’t think we had better be seen in company; those fellows only saw you for a moment, and will scarcely be likely to recognise you, should you meet them.”

“I don’t want to meet ’em,” said the Captain. “I saw that Shady chap in the bar, and thought ’e was on the lookout for me again—so I chivvied of ’im upstairs.”

They parted for the time, after Philip Chater had impressed his address upon the Captain’s mind, with many injunctions to talk about him as little as possible. Philip, after walking for nearly an hour, found a quiet hotel, and gladly got to bed. At the last moment, before his eyes closed, he remembered the two packets which had been given him, together with the piece of paper the sandy-haired man had tossed to him, and which latter he had thrust into his pocket. He jumped out of bed, re-lit the gas, and took them from the pockets of his clothing.

The first packet, when he broke it, he found contained bank-notes—for small and large amounts—to the total of three thousand five hundred pounds; the second packet held the same amount. Dropping these hastily, he caught up the scrap of paper, and hurriedly unfolded it.

It was a roughly-drawn plan of certain roads and paths, together with two little squares—one at the top right-hand corner, and one at the top left-hand corner. The square at the right was marked—“Dandy’s house—easily seen from village street.” The other square was marked—“The Cottage.”

And the address pencilled upon it was—“The Cottage, Bamberton.”