Philip Chater was so stunned, in the first shock of the thing, that he did not know what to say, or what to do. Standing, as he did, an absolutely innocent man, he yet had time to recognise that he had taken upon himself the identity of another; and stood answerable, by reason of that, for that other’s sins, in the eyes of the world, at least.

He had no doubt, in his own mind, that Dandy Chater had murdered this unfortunate girl. Her words to himself, on the night of his coming to Bamberton—her reminder, to the supposed Dandy Chater, of his promise to marry her—the mysterious appointment made, for that same night, in the wood behind the mill; all these things seemed to point to but one conclusion. Again, the man running, as for his life, to catch the train—and without the girl; her disappearance, from that hour; all these things, too, pointed, with unerring finger, to the common sordid story, ending, in an hour of desperation, in the blow which should rid the man of his burden.

These thoughts flashed rapidly through his mind, even in the few seconds which elapsed after the other man’s halting declaration, and while that other man still crouched at his feet. Then, the instinct of self-preservation—the desire, and the necessity, to hide that blood-stained thing, which seemed to point to him—innocent though he was—as surely in death as it would have pointed in life—swept over him. He caught the lad by the arm, and dragged him to his feet; the while his mind was fiercely working, in a wild attempt to settle some plan of action. Even in that hour of danger, a keen remembrance of the part he still had to play was full upon him; in his brutal roughness of voice, when he spoke, he played that part of Dandy Chater, as he imagined Dandy Chater would have played it himself.

“Get up, you fool!” he cried, roughly. “Is this a time to be snivelling here? Suppose she is dead—it was an accident.”

Harry sadly but doggedly shook his head. “You won’t find many to believe that, Master Dandy,” he said. “She lies there—stabbed in the breast. There is a trail of blood for some yards; she must have tried to crawl away—and have bled to death. Master Dandy, can’t you see that she will be found; can’t you guess what they will say, and whom they will question first? All the village has linked your names, for months past.”

“She—it must be hidden,” whispered Philip, weakly. “God—man”—he cried, with a sudden burst of petulant anger—“why do you stand staring like that? It may be found at any moment; it may have been found before this!”

“There’s no help for it, Master Dandy,” replied the other, with a groan—“it must be found, sooner or later. I tell you, you must get away—beyond seas, if possible.”

“And draw suspicion on myself at once!” exclaimed Philip. Then, some of the real Philip Chater coming to the surface, and sweeping aside the false personality under which he lived, he added, hurriedly—“But you must have nothing to do with it, Harry; we mustn’t get you into trouble. No—I’ll take the thing in my own hands, and in my own fashion. Do you keep a silent tongue to every one.”

“You need not fear that I shall speak, Master Dandy,” replied the lad. “And it may not be so bad, after all; you may yet find a way of getting out of it, Master Dandy.”

“A way of getting out of it!” muttered Philip to himself, as he watched the retreating figure of his servant. “There seems but small chance of that. Robbery was bad enough; but this is another matter. She’s dead, and cannot speak; even if she were alive, she must point to me as Dandy Chater. And I cannot speak, because the real Dandy Chater is gone, and I stand here in his clothes, and with his very papers in my pockets. Philip, my boy—keep a cool head—for this business means death!”

Some morbid attraction, no less than the necessity for doing something with the body, urged him to see it. But, here again, the bitterness and the strangeness of his position came strongly upon him; for, though he stood in deadly peril of being charged with the murder of this girl, he was actually ignorant of the spot where her body lay. He shuddered at the thought that he might stumble upon it, at any step he took. Still casting about in his mind for the best method of finding the place, he went back to the Hall; and resolved to fortify himself with dinner, before doing anything.

“I suppose, if I really had murder on my soul, I should have no appetite—unless I were a hardened villain indeed. Being innocent, I’ll make the best of things, until they come to the worst.”

With this wise resolution, he dined well, and drank an excellent bottle of wine. The world beginning to look a little better, in direct consequence, he lit a cigar, and put the matter philosophically before himself.

“Men have been hung, I know, on slighter evidence than that which connects me with the dead girl. Yet, after all”—he derived very considerable satisfaction from the remembrance of this point—“I am not Dandy Chater—and never was. If I can only as readily persuade people that I am not my twin brother, as I have persuaded them that I am—I’ve nothing to fear. That’s the point. However, I must know what the danger of discovery is, and exactly where I stand, before I do anything else. Then—if there is nothing for it but flight, the question will be: can I as readily drop my mask as I have assumed it? Frankly, I’m afraid I can’t.”

Knowing the impossibility of doing anything alone, by reason of his ignorance of the neighbourhood, he rang the bell, and requested that Harry might be sent to him. In a few moments, the servant who had answered the summons returned, and, standing just within the door, announced that Harry was not to be found.

“What do you mean?” asked Philip. “Look about for him, man; he must be somewhere about the place.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” replied the man—“’e ’as been seen leavin’ the grounds a little while since.”

“Very well; it doesn’t matter,” said Philip, carelessly. “Send him to me when he returns.”

The man withdrew, leaving Philip Chater in an uneasy frame of mind. He saw at once that, great as this lad’s devotion might be to Dandy Chater, he had already, in a moment of passion, defied his master. He was scarcely more than a boy—and in that boy’s hands hung the life of Philip Chater. That he should have gone out, in this fashion, without a word, was a circumstance suspicious enough at any time; that he should have done so now, was alarming in the extreme to the man who dreaded every moment to hear unaccustomed sounds in the house, which should denote that the secret of the wood was a secret no longer, and that men had come to take him.

“I can’t stay here; I shall go mad, if I do,” said Philip to himself. “After all, there may be only a few hours of liberty left to me—perhaps only a matter of minutes. Come—what shall I do with the time?”

A certain recklessness was upon the man—the recklessness which will make a man laugh sometimes, in the certain approach of death. With that feeling, too, came a softer one; in that hour of difficulty and danger, he turned, as it were instinctively, towards the woman who had kissed him—the woman who had whispered that she loved him. In his bitter loneliness, as has been said, his thoughts had turned to her, more often than was good for his peace of mind; and now a longing, greater than he could master, came upon him, to touch her hand—perhaps, by great good fortune, her lips—once again.

“Who knows—it may be for the last time!” he said. “There has not been so much of tenderness or beauty in my life, that I can afford to throw it churlishly aside, when it is given so freely to me. Madge, my sweet girl—this vagabond, thieving, murdering, masquerading lover of yours is coming to see you.”

With that lighter, better mood upon him, he sought for the piece of paper, on which the plan had been drawn, and traced the paths by which he should reach the cottage; he found, as he had anticipated, that it was within some two or three hundred yards of his own lodge gates.

It was quite dark when he strolled out; but he had the plan very clearly in his mind, and he found his way, without difficulty, to the place he sought. It was a good-sized house, of but two stories, and rambling and old-fashioned; thrusting open a gate, set in the hedge which surrounded it, he walked across trim lawns, in the direction of certain long windows, which lighted a terrace, and behind which the warm glow of lamps and fires was shining.

But, before he reached this terrace, he heard an exclamation, and from out the shadow of some trees a figure came swiftly towards him. For a moment, he hesitated, and half drew back; but the figure came nearer, and he saw that it was Madge Barnshaw. In his great relief, and in his gladness, at that time, to see her friendly face, and her eyes giving him welcome, he took her silently in his arms, and kissed her.

“Dear Dandy,” she said—and her voice was very low and soft—“how I have longed to see you!”

“Not more, dear heart, than I to see you,” he replied. “But I—I have been—been very busy; so many things have occupied my attention—so many things have needed to—to be done. Why—what a poor lover you must think me!”

“Indeed—no,” she said. “Only I feared—such a foolish thought, I know—I feared that something might be wrong with you—feared that you might be in danger. Dandy”—she was twisting a button on his coat round and round in her fingers, and her eyes were bent down, so that he could not see them—“you remember once a long talk we had, about—about your cousin—Mr. Ogledon—don’t you?”

He did not, of course, remember it, for an obvious reason; but, as he was desirous of hearing as much as possible about that gentleman, he answered diplomatically,

“Well—what about him?”

“Dandy—dear old boy—I don’t want you to think that I am uncharitable, or that this is a mere woman’s whim. You remember that you were very angry with me, when last I spoke about him; you said——”

“I promise that you shall not make me angry this time—no matter what you say about him,” broke in Philip, gently.

She raised her head quickly, and looked at him for a moment or two in silence. “Dandy,” she said at last, looking at him strangely—“you have never been so good to me as you are to-night; never seemed so near to me. That old impatience of yours seems to be gone. Something has softened you; what is it?”

“Perhaps it is my love for you, dear Madge,” he said; and indeed, he thought then that the love of her might have softened any man.

“Do you think so?” she asked, smiling at him happily. “And you will promise not to be angry at anything I say?”

“Most faithfully.”

“Well, then, I mistrust that man. I think a woman sees deeper into the hearts of her fellow-creatures than a man can hope to do; perhaps it is God’s gift to her, for her greater protection. The world is a sweet and precious place to me—especially since we have been drawn so much more strongly together—you and I; but I say from my heart that it would be a better place if that man were dead.”

He looked at her in some astonishment; a rising tide of passion had flushed her face, and drawn her figure more erect.

“God forgive me for wishing harm to any living creature!” she went on, in the same low passionate voice—“but he is your worst foe, Dandy. Beneath his smiling, soft ways, he hides the heart of a devil; and I have seen that in his eyes, when you have not observed him, which has told me that he would not hesitate to do you a mischief, if you stood in the way of anything he desired.”

Philip Chater suddenly remembered, even in the interest he took in what she said, that he had a part to play. Therefore, with a shrug of the shoulders, he replied, lightly—“Indeed—you do him a wrong, Madge. Besides, I can take care of myself, even if he should be as bad as you paint him.”

Yet, how he longed, at that time, to tell her how true he believed her words to be! How he longed to fall at her feet, and tell her that the man to whom her heart had been given had been unworthy of it; that he was dead, and that another stood in his place—ready to take his place in a yet greater sense! But he knew that that was impossible; only, in his heart, was growing up a dreadful insane jealousy of the man who was dead.

“Where is he now?” she asked suddenly, after a little pause.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied Philip, carelessly. “Come—surely we have something better to talk about than cousin Ogledon. See—the moon is rising—the moon that calls to lovers, all the world over, to worship him, and swear by him. What shall I swear to you, dear Madge?”

“Swear first of all,” she said, still with that note of anxiety in her voice—“swear that you will have as little as possible to do with that man. Ah—do let me speak”—this as he was about to interrupt her—“I know, only too well, that I have reason for my anxiety. Come—if you love me, Dandy dear—promise me that you will have as little——”

“Indeed—I’ll promise you that, with a light heart,” exclaimed Philip. And indeed he had small desire to have anything at all to do with Mr. Ogledon.

“Thank you, dear boy—thank you!” exclaimed, gratefully. “That’s quite like that newer, better self, which you promised I should see in you. There”—she bent forward, and kissed him lightly—“that in token that the matter is ended between us. Now—what shall we do? The moon is rising, as you say, and I don’t want to go inside yet; Miss Vint plays propriety, and never understands when she is in the way.”

“We certainly don’t want Miss Vint,” said Philip, with a laugh. “Come, my sweetheart—let us ramble here, for a little time, at least—and talk.”

After pacing up and down the garden once or twice, they stopped, side by side, at a little gate which opened from the further corner of its somewhat limited extent; as the girl laid her hand upon it, Philip inwardly wondered where it led. She swung it open, quite as a matter of course, and as though that had been a favourite walk of her own and her lover; and they passed through, into a sort of little plantation. The moon was high, and the sky clear; their own shadows, and those of the trees, were sharp and distinct upon the ground. Still almost in silence, save for an occasional word, they passed on, side by side, until the gate was far behind them.

A thought had been growing in Philip Chater’s mind while they walked; and he suddenly put it into words.

“You have some reason—other than the mere instinct of which you speak—for disliking Ogledon so much.” He said it slowly, having been at some pains to work the thing out in his mind.

“I thought we had done with the matter, and were not to speak of it again?” she said.

“I think you ought to tell me; I think I ought to know,” he said, doggedly. “In fact—haven’t I the right to know?”

She was silent for some moments, while they still paced on steadily, side by side, leaving the gate in the garden further behind them at every step. So intent was he upon the girl, and so eagerly did he listen for her answer, that he did not observe that the plantation had changed to something of denser growth, and that the trees about them were thick and heavy, and the ground broken and uneven.

“Yes—I suppose you have the right,” she said at last. “I always suspected the man, Dandy—I always disliked him. But a little time since, presuming upon a chance meeting with me, he protested—oh—you will not remember this afterwards—will you?—he protested his love for me, in a fashion so violent, that I have feared him ever since. He said that the stories about you and that girl—Patience Miller——”

Do what he would, he could not repress a start—could not keep his face wholly within control. So violent had the start been, that she had stopped instinctively, and had dropped her hand from his arm.

“Why—what is the matter? Dandy dear—you are ill!”

“Nothing—nothing is the matter,” he replied, with a faint smile. “My God—what’s that?”

In the silence of the place, as the man and the woman stood looking into each other’s eyes, there had come, borne upon the still air, the unmistakable thud—thud of a spade in stiff earth. A question forced itself to the man’s lips, and found voice, quite as though some other voice had spoken.

“Madge—in Heaven’s name—what place is this?”

She stared at him, in mingled amazement and terror; while he, for his part, seemed to count the steady thud—thud near to them, as he might have counted his own heart beats, if life were ebbing from him.

“What place? Dandy—you are dreaming! Surely you know that this is the wood—the wood behind the mill—you know——”

With a cry like that of a wounded animal, Philip Chater sprang from her, and went plunging among the trees, in the direction of that frightful sound. He came, in a moment, upon something which brought him to his knees, with a suppressed scream; the body of a young girl, about whom all the earth seemed stained a dreadful crimson. Beyond that sight, was the young lad Harry, up to his knees in a long shallow trench, in which he was digging away like a fury. He neither heard his master’s approach, nor glanced up for a moment.

Philip turned, and crashed back through the wood, until he reached the woman’s side again. “Come away,” he whispered, hurriedly—“it—it is nothing; come away—for God’s sake!”

But she broke from him, and went racing in the direction he had himself taken, and was lost to sight in a moment. He heard, through the silence that brooded awfully upon the place, a piercing scream; and the next moment she came plunging headlong past him, and went, staggering blindly, with her hands before her eyes, in the direction in which they had walked so calmly but a few moments before.