THE SECOND DANDY CHATER

BY

TOM GALLON

Author of

“Tatterly,”

“The Kingdom of Hate,”

et cetera.

NEW YORK

Dodd, Mead & Company

Copyright, 1900,

By Tom Gallon.

Contents

The Second Dandy Chater

CHAPTER I
WHEREIN THE QUICK AND THE DEAD MEET

If there is one place, in the wide world, more dreary and disconsolate-looking than another, on a gusty evening in March, it is that part of Essex which lies some twenty miles to the north of the Thames, and is bordered nowhere, so far as the eye can reach, by anything but flat and desolate marshlands, and by swampy roads and fields. For there, all the contrary winds of Heaven seem to meet, to play a grand game of buffets with themselves, and everything else which rises an inch or two above the ground; there, the very sun, if he happen to have shown his face at all during the day, sinks more sullenly than anywhere else, as though disgusted with the prospect, and glad to get to bed; there, the few travellers who have been so unwise, or so unfortunate, as to be left out of doors, are surly in consequence, and give but grudging greeting to any one they meet.

On just such an evening as this a solitary man, muffled to the eyes, fought a desperate battle with the various winds, something to his own discomfiture, and very much to the ruffling of his temper, on the way to the small village of Bamberton. The railway leaves off suddenly, some six miles from Bamberton, and the man who would visit that interesting spot must perforce pay for a fly at the Railway Inn, if he desire to enter the place with any ostentation, or must walk.

In the case of this particular man, he desired, for purposes of his own, to attract as little notice as possible; and was, therefore, tramping through the mud and a drizzling rain, as cheerfully as might be. He was a tall, well-built man, of about eight-and-twenty years of age; with strong, well-defined features, rendered the more so by the fact that his face was cleanly shaven; possibly from having led a solitary life, he had a habit of communing with himself.

“A cheery welcome, this, to one’s native land—to one’s native place!” he muttered, bending his head, as a fresh gust of wind and rain drove at him. “Why—if the devil himself were in league against me, and had made up his mind to oppose my coming, he couldn’t fight harder than this! ’Pon my word, it almost looks like a bad omen for you, Philip Crowdy—a devilish bad omen!”

Despite the wind and the rain and the gathering night, however, the man presently seated himself on a stone, near the roadside, and within sight of the twinkling lights of the village, as though he has something weighty on his mind, which must be thrashed out before he could proceed to his destination. Despite the wind and the rain, too, he took the matter quite good-humouredly, in putting a suppositious case to himself—even doing it with some jocularity.

“Now Phil, my boy—you’ve got to be very careful. There’s no getting away from the fact that you are not wanted—and you certainly will not be welcome. The likeness is all right; I’ve seen a picture of the respected Dandy Chater—and there’s nothing to be feared, from that point of view. The only thing is, that I must feel my way, and know exactly what I am doing. And, for the moment, darkness suits me better than daylight. My first business is to get as near to Dandy Chater as possible, and observe him.”

The tall man, bringing his ruminations to a close, sat for a moment or two, deep in thought—so deep in thought, indeed, that he did not hear the sound of light steps approaching him, from the direction of the village; and was absolutely unaware that there was any other figure but himself in all the landscape, until he felt a light touch on his shoulder, and started hurriedly to his feet.

Facing him, in the semi-darkness, was a young girl, who, even by that light, he could see was unmistakably pretty. She was quite young, and, although her dress was poor and common, there was an indefinable air of grace about her, which set her apart—or seemed to do, in the man’s eyes—from any mere rustic girl. To his surprise, she stood quite still before him, with her eyes cast down, as though waiting for him to speak. After a moment or two of embarrassing silence, Mr. Philip Crowdy spoke.

“What is the matter?” he asked, in a low voice.

The girl raised her eyes—and very beautiful eyes they were, too, although they seemed haggard and red, and even then had the traces of tears in them—and looked steadily at him. Even though the man knew that he had been mistaken by her for some one else, there was no start of surprise on her part; he knew, in an instant, that she thought she saw in him the person she wanted.

“Dandy, dear,” she said, appealingly—and her voice had a faint touch of the rustic in it—“you promised that you would see me again to-night.”

The man had given a faint quick start of surprise, at the mention of the name; he turned away abruptly—partly in order to have time to collect his thoughts, partly to hide his face from her.

“Better and better!” he muttered to himself. “Nearer and nearer! Now—who on earth is this, and what is Dandy Chater’s little game?”

“I can’t go down to the village, Dandy,” went on the girl piteously. “You know why I can’t go. You promised to meet me to-night, in the little wood behind the mill—didn’t you, Dandy?”

“Yes—yes—I know,” replied the man, impatiently. In reality, in this sudden surprising turn of events, his one object was to gain time—to give such replies as should lead her to state more fully who she was, and what her errand might be. “What then?”

“Don’t be hurt, Dandy dear,” the girl went on, coming timidly a little nearer to him. “You know how much it means to me—my good name—everything. I was afraid—afraid you might—might forget.”

How piteously she said it—and what depth of pleading there was in her eyes! She seemed little more than a girl, and the man, looking at her, felt a certain hot indignation growing in him against the real Dandy Chater, who could have brought tears to eyes which must once have been so innocent. It was not his purpose, however, to undeceive her; he had too much at stake for that; so he felt his way cautiously.

“I shan’t forget; you need not fear. I will meet you, as I have promised,” he replied slowly.

“You are very good to me, Dandy,” said the girl, gratefully. “And you are going to take me to London—aren’t you?”

This had evidently been promised by the real Dandy Chater, and Philip Crowdy felt that he must deal delicately with the matter, as he had still much to learn. Accordingly, pitiful though the thing was, he took it half laughingly.

“To London? But what am I to do with you there. Where shall we go?”

She laughed, to please his humour. “Why—Dandy dear—how soon you forget! Didn’t you promise that I should go with you to the old place—there, I can see you’ve forgotten all about it already—the old place at Woolwich—the Three Watermen—near the river; didn’t you say we might wait there until to-morrow? And then——Oh, Dandy, the thought of it takes away my breath, and makes my heart beat with joy and gratitude—and then—we are to be married!”

“There is some desperate game afoot here,” thought Philip Crowdy to himself, as he stood in the dark road, looking at the eager face of the girl. “Why—in Heaven’s name, does he want to meet her in a wood, if he’s going to take her to London? I must follow this up, if possible, at any cost.” Aloud he said, “Of course—how stupid of me; I’d quite forgotten. And to-morrow Dandy Chater, Esq., and——”

“Patience Miller,” broke in the girl, quickly—“will be man and wife—and Patience will be the happiest girl in England!”

“Got her name, by George!” muttered the man to himself. “Poor girl—I hope to goodness the man is dealing fairly with her.” Turning to the girl again, he said carelessly—“Let me see, what time did I say we were to meet in the wood?”

“At half-past seven,” replied the girl. “You said we should have time to walk across the fields, from there to the station, to catch the last train, without any one seeing us—don’t you remember?”

“Yes—yes, I remember,” replied the man. “I shan’t be late; till then—good-bye!”

He had turned away, and had gone some few paces down the road towards the village, when the girl called piteously after him.

“Dandy—you’re not going like that? Won’t you—won’t you kiss me?”

The man retraced his steps slowly. As, after a moment’s hesitation, he put an arm carelessly round her shoulders, and bent his face towards hers, he looked fully and strongly into her eyes; but there was no change in her expression—no faintest start of suspicion or doubt.

“That was a trial!” he muttered, when he had started again towards the village, and had left her standing in the road looking after him. “The likeness must be greater even than I suspected. Now to find Mr. Dandy Chater—or rather—to keep out of his way, until I know what his movements are.”

Coming, in the darkness, into the little village—a place consisting of one long straggling street of cottages, running up a hill—he found the road flanked on either side by a small inn. On the one side—the right hand—was the Chater Arms; on the other—the Bamberton Head. Standing between them, and looking up the long straggling street, Mr. Philip Crowdy could discern, in the distance, perched on rising ground, the outlines of a great house, with lights showing faintly here and there in its windows.

“That’s Chater Hall—evidently,” he said softly to himself. “Now the question is, where is Mr. Dandy Chater? Shall I go up to the Hall, and reconnoitre the position, or shall I try one of the inns? I think I’ll try one of the inns; if I happen to drop into the wrong one, and he’s there, I must trust to making a bolt for it; if he’s not there, I think the likeness will serve, and I may hear something which will be useful. Now, then—heads, right—tails, left!”

He spun a coin in the air—looked at it closely—returned it to his pocket—and turned to the left, into the Bamberton Head. Knowing that any sign of hesitation might mean his undoing, he thrust open a door which led into the little parlour, and boldly entered it. There were one or two men in the room, and a big surly-looking giant of a fellow, who appeared to be the landlord. The men exchanged glances which, to the man keenly watchful of every movement, seemed to be glances of surprise; the surly landlord put a hand to his forehead.

“Evenin’, Muster Chater,” said the man. “’Tain’t of’en as we sees anything o’ you this side the way, sir.”

“Wrong house,” thought Philip Crowdy. “So much the better, perhaps; I am less likely to meet the real man, until I wish to do so.” Aloud he said, with a shrug of the shoulders—“Oh—anything for a change. Bring me some brandy, it can’t be worse than that at the other shop—and it may be better.”

“A deal better, Muster Chater, take my word for ’t,” replied the landlord, hurrying away to execute the order.

During the time that the stranger sat there, and had leisure to look about him, he became aware of one unpleasant fact. He saw that, however great might be their respect for the mere position of the man they supposed him to be, there was a curious resentment at his presence, and a distrust of him personally, which was not to be disguised. When, having leisurely drunk his brandy, he left the place, to their evident relief, and came again out into the darkness of the village street, he expressed the opinion to himself, in one emphatic phrase, that Dandy Chater was a bad lot.

In the strangeness of his position, and in his uncertainty as to what future course he was to take, his interview with the girl, on the road outside the village, had gone, for the time, clean out of his mind; when he looked at his watch, he discovered, to his dismay, that it was nearly eight o’clock. More than that, he did not even know where the wood of which she had spoken was situated, and he dared not ask the way to it.

Trusting to blind chance to guide him, and looking about anxiously over the flat landscape, for anything at all answering the description of a mill, or even of a wood, he lost more valuable time still; and at last, in sheer desperation, remembering that the last train for London started at a few minutes to the hour of nine, he set off, at a rapid rate, for the railway station—running along the road now and then, in his anxiety not to miss it.

“If the real Dandy Chater has kept his promise to the girl, even so far as taking her to London is concerned,” he muttered, as he ran on, “they’ve met in the wood long ago, and are well on their way to the station. I’ll follow them; that’s the best course. Besides—I don’t like the look of that business with the girl; her eyes seem to haunt me somehow. If I miss them at the station, I can at least go on to that place she mentioned at Woolwich, and keep my eye on the man.”

The wind and rain were less heavy and boisterous than they had been, and the moon was struggling faintly through driving clouds. As the man hurried along, seeing the lights of the station in the distance before him, a figure suddenly broke through the low hedge beside the road, scarcely more than a hundred yards in advance, and ran on in front, in the same direction. Philip Crowdy, hearing the warning shriek of the train, hurried on faster than before.

At the very entrance of the station-yard was a gas lamp, which served to light feebly the dreary-looking muddy roads converging upon it. And, beneath this lamp, the figure which had broken through the hedge, and run on before, had stopped, and was carefully scraping and shaking some heavy wet clay from its boots. Catching a glimpse of the face of the figure, as he hurried past, Crowdy, with an exclamation, drew his hat down well over his face, and pulled his coat collar higher.

There was no time even to get a ticket; Crowdy raced across the booking-office, and reached the platform just in time; wrenched open a door, and jumped in. He heard a shout, and, looking out, saw a porter pulling open another door, while the man who had been so particular about his boots sprang into the train. Then, the door was slammed, and the train, already in motion, steamed out of the station.

Philip Crowdy leant back in the compartment in which he found himself alone, and whistled softly. “This is a new move,” he muttered, “Dandy Chater himself—and without the girl. Well, most respectable Great Eastern Railway Company,” he added, with a laugh, apostrophising the name of the Company staring at him from the wall of the carriage—“it isn’t often that you carry, in one train, two such queer people as you carry to-night!” Then, becoming serious again, he said softly—“But I’d like to know what’s become of the girl.”

When the train reached Liverpool Street, Philip Crowdy remained in the carriage as long as possible, in order to avoid meeting the other man; and, on getting out, discovered to his annoyance that the other man had vanished—swallowed up in the restless crowds of people who were moving about the platforms. However, having one faint clue to guide him, he set off for Woolwich.

The Three Watermen is a little old-fashioned gloomy public-house, situated at the end of a narrow street, which plunges down towards the river, and on the very bank of that river itself. Indeed, it is half supported, on the riverside, by huge baulks of timber, round which the muddy water creeps and washes; and it is the presiding genius, as it were, over a number of tumble-down sheds and out-houses, used for the storage of river lumber of one sort or another, or, in some cases, not used at all. And it is the resort of various riverside men; with occasionally some stranger, who appears to belong to salter waters, and to have lost his way there, in getting to the sea.

Outside this place, Philip Crowdy waited, for a long time, in the shadow of a doorway, debating with himself what to do. Being practically in strange quarters, he had had to enquire every step of the way, both as to his journey by train to Woolwich, and afterwards, when he had reached the place. In consequence, he had lost a very considerable amount of time; and was well aware that, if the man he pursued had come to the place at all, he had had all the advantage, from the fact of knowing the way clearly, and being able to make straight for his destination. Under these circumstances, it was quite impossible for Crowdy to know whether the man was in the place, or, if so, how long he had been there—or even if he had not already left the house.

Turning over all these points in his mind, Crowdy wandered, half aimlessly, down a little alley, which led beside the Three Watermen towards the river. He had just reached the end of it, and was shivering a little, at the melancholy prospect of dark water and darker mud before him, when a man, rushing hurriedly from the direction of the water, almost carried him off his legs; snapped out an oath at him; and was gone up the alley, and into the street, before Crowdy had recovered his breath.

“People seem in a hurry about these parts,” he murmured to himself. “Now, I wonder what on earth that fellow was running away from?”

Impelled, half by curiosity, and half by the restlessness which possessed him, he turned and walked some little distance, over a kind of dilapidated wharf, in the direction from which the man had come. The place was quite lonely and deserted, and only the skeleton-like frames of some old barges and other vessels, which some one, at some remote period, had been breaking up, stood up gaunt against the sky. Some darker object, among some broken timbers at the very edge of the water, attracted his attention; he went forward quickly, and then, with a half-suppressed cry, threw himself on his knees beside it.

It was the body of a man, who had apparently fallen just where he had been struck down; the hand which Philip Crowdy touched was quite warm, although the man was stone dead. But that was not the strange part—that was not the reason why the living man, bending close above the dead, stared at the face as though he could never gaze enough.

The faces that stared so grimly, in that desolate spot, into each other—the dead and the living—were alike in every particular, down to the smallest detail; it was as though the living man gazed into a mirror, which threw back every line, even every faint touch of colouring, in his own face.

“Dandy Chater!” whispered Crowdy to himself in an awed voice. “So, I’ve found you at last!”

CHAPTER II
ON THE TRACK OF A SHADOW

The man’s first impulse was to shout for assistance; his second, to dash hot foot after the murderer; his last, to keep perfectly still, while he thought hard, with all his wits sharpened by the crisis of the moment. For hours, he had been racing across country, and hiding and dodging, in pursuit of this man; and he came upon him lying dead, the victim of he knew not what conspiracy. Instinctively he glanced about him, with the dread of seeing other murderous eyes watching; instinctively sprang to his feet, the better to face whatever danger might threaten.

The thing was so awful, and so unexpected, that the man, for a moment, had no power to face it; indeed, he had started to run from the place, in an agony of fear, when a sudden thought swept over him—arresting his flight, and holding him as motionless as though some mortal hand had gripped him, and brought him to bay.

“Dandy Chater dead!” he gasped. “This puts a new light on things indeed! Dandy Chater dead—and out of the way! Let me think; let me hammer something out of this new horror—let me find the best road to travel!” He sat down among the rotting timbers, and propped his chin in his palms, and stared at the dead man.

“Who am I? Who—in all this amazing world, will believe my story, if I tell it? Dandy Chater out of the way!——My God!—that serves my purpose; that was what I wanted. The game’s in my hands; the likeness——”

He started to his feet again, and looked round wildly—looked round, like a hunted man who seeks desperately for some way of escape; ran a few paces, and stood listening; came slowly back again.

“Great heavens!” he muttered softly—“they’ll think I murdered him!”

That was a sufficiently sobering thought; he stood still, the better to work out the new problem which faced him.

“Think, Philip Crowdy: you’ve come across the world, to find this man—to wrest from him that which is your right. His real murderer is by this time far away; you are alone with his body, in a place to which you have tracked him. If Dandy Chater has been lured here, and struck down, as is more than likely in such a neighbourhood, for the mere purpose of robbery, there is not the slightest chance—or a very faint one, at best—of finding the man who struck the blow. On the other hand—how do you stand? Tell your story to the world, and, if they believe it, what must inevitably be said: that by this man’s death you benefit—therefore, by logical reasoning, you must have compassed his death. Philip Crowdy—you’re in a remarkably tight place!”

Looking at the matter from one standpoint and another, he came to a desperate resolution—even smiled grimly a little to himself, as he bent again over the dead man. Turning the body over, he found that Dandy Chater had been struck down from behind, apparently with a heavy piece of timber which lay near at hand; he must have been wandering at the very edge of the river at the time, for the rising tide was now actually lapping the edges of his garments. Philip Crowdy bent above him and began to search rapidly in the pockets, for whatever they might contain.

“Papers—watch and chain—keys—a very little money,” he whispered to himself quickly, as he made his search. “The money I’ll leave; some river shark will get that; the rest I’ll take. The keys I shall want—also the papers.”

Carefully stowing away the things in his own pockets, he rose to his feet, and looked about him. It was very late, and there seemed to be no sign of life, either on land or water, save for the distant muffled sound of the steady beat of a tug, working heavily down stream.

“I can’t leave him here; for the body to be discovered would spoil everything. And it wouldn’t be particularly nice for Philip Crowdy to be discovered, with Dandy Chater’s private possessions in his pockets. Now—what’s to be done?”

The perplexing question was answered for him, in an unexpected way. The beat of the tug sounded nearer and louder, and he saw the gleam of the light which hung from its funnel. Behind it, towering high in the darkness, was a great vessel, which it was dragging manfully down the river. While the man stood there, idly and mechanically watching it, with his dead likeness lying at his feet, there came a sudden disturbance in the water; a great wash from the river swamped up all about him, so that he turned, and ran back hurriedly a few paces, out of the way of it.

When he looked again at the spot where he had stood, the body was gone. Some of the timbers, too, among which it had lain, were washing about, and crashing together, at some little distance from the shore. The man ran to the very edge of the water, and strained his eyes eagerly, in search for something else beside timbers; but the darkness was too profound for him to see anything clearly; and, although he ran along the muddy bank—first to right, and then to left—he could discover nothing. He stood alone, in that desolate place, and the dead man was undoubtedly being hurried, with the timbers among which he had fallen, down the river towards the sea.

Presently, the man seemed to realise the full significance of what had happened; touched the papers in his pocket; and stood staring thoughtfully at the ground for a long time.

“There is some strange fate in this,” he muttered to himself. “To-night, by accident, I took the place of the real Dandy Chater for a few hours; now I’ll take his place—not by accident, but by design. Dandy Chater is dead and gone! Yes—Dandy Chater is dead—but long live Dandy Chater!”

With these words, the man turned quickly, hurried up the alley way into the street, and set off as rapidly as possible in the direction of London.

It was so late, that all public vehicles had ceased running, and the railway station was closed. He did not care to excite attention, by chartering a cab to take him to London, and he stood for some time in one of the main streets—now almost deserted—wondering what he should do. The appearance of a small coffee-house, on the other side of the street, with the announcement swinging outside that beds were to be let there, attracted his attention; the proprietor of it had already closed one half of the double doors, and was standing outside, leaning against the side of the window, and contemplating the street, before retiring from the public eye for the day. Philip Crowdy, after a moment’s hesitation, crossed the street, and accosted the man.

“Can I have a bed here?” he asked.

The man looked him up and down for a moment in silence; removed the pipe he was smoking from his lips—blew a long stream of smoke into the air; and finally ejaculated—“’Ave yer pick of the w’ole bloomin’ lot, if yer like. It’s my private opinion that there ain’t anybody a sleepin’ in beds these times, ’cept me, an’ the missis, and the Queen, an’ a few of sich like nobs; leastways, they don’t come my way. Walk in, guv’nor.”

Crowdy followed the man into the shop—a small and very dingy-looking eating-house, fitted up with boxes along each side. The sight of the boxes reminded him that he had had nothing to eat for many hours; discussing the matter with the proprietor of the establishment, he found that he could be supplied with a light meal within a short space of time. Accordingly, he ordered it, and sat down to await its coming.

He picked up a stained newspaper, and tried to read; but before his eyes, again and again, came the image of the dead face, which had stared into his that night. So much had happened—so much that was wild and strange—within the past few hours, that it all seemed like some horrible unruly nightmare. Yet he knew that it was something more than that; for his fingers touched the papers in his pocket, and the watch that had belonged to the dead man. For a moment, as his hands closed upon them, a sweat of fear broke out upon his forehead, and he glanced about him uneasily.

“It’s a desperate game,” he muttered. “If the body should be found, and recognised—or if the likeness be not so complete as I have thought—what shall I say—what shall I do? Why—I don’t even know what manner of man this Dandy Chater was—or what were his habits, his companions, the places to which he resorted; I know absolutely nothing. Every step of the way I must grope in the dark. And I may betray myself at any moment!”

He dropped the paper from before his eyes, and found, to his astonishment, and somewhat to his discomfiture, that he was being steadily regarded, by a man who sat at the other side of the table. More than that, the man, having his back towards the little inner room where the meal was being prepared, nodded his head quickly, in a familiar fashion, and bent forward, and whispered the following astounding remark—

“Wot—give the Count the slip—’ave yer?”

Philip Crowdy’s position, at that moment, was not an enviable one. He was utterly alone, in the sense that, whatever battles lay before him, he had to fight them as best he could, and dared not trust any living soul; worse than all, he must fight them in the dark, not knowing, when he took one step, where the next might lead. Moreover, the man before him was one of the most repulsive looking ruffians it is possible to imagine—a man who, from his appearance, might have been one of those unfortunates described by the proprietor of the place as never sleeping in a bed. His clothes, which had once been black, were of a greenish hue, from long exposure to the weather, and were fastened together, in the more necessary places, by pins and scraps of string. His face, long and thin and cadaverous, had upon it, besides its native dirt, a week’s growth of beard and moustache; his hair—thin almost to baldness on the top—hung long about his ears, and was rolled inwards at the ends, in the fashion of some thirty years ago.

Crowdy, after eyeing this man for a few moments in silence, grunted something inaudible, and took up the paper again.

“No offence, Dandy,” said the man, somewhat more humbly, and in the same hoarse whisper as before. “Seed yer outside—an’ came in arter yer. Agin the rules—an’ well I knows it; but there ain’t no one ’ere to twig us—is there?”

“Well—what of that?” asked the other, taking his cue from the fellow’s humility. “Can’t you let a man alone, even at this hour? What the devil do you want now?”

“Don’t be so ’asty, Dandy,” replied the man, in an injured tone. “It ain’t for me ter say anyfink agin the Count—’cos ’e’s your pal. But you’re young at this game, Dandy, and the Count is a bit too fly. If you wants a fren’, as ’ll be a fren’, don’t fergit the Shady ’un—will yer?” This last very insinuatingly.

“Oh—so you’re the Shady ’un—are you?” thought Crowdy. Aloud he said—“Thanks—I can take care of myself.”

“Ah—you wos always ’igh an’ mighty—you wos,” replied the other, with a propitiatory smile. “It ain’t fer me ter say anyfink agin the Count—on’y ’e’s a deep ’un, that’s all. An’ ’e’s got some new move on; ’e was a stickin’ like wax to you to-night—yer know ’e wos.”

Philip Crowdy caught his breath. Here, surely, was some faint clue at last; for it was possible that the man who had been “sticking like wax” to the unfortunate Dandy Chater that night, might have stuck to him to the very last, down by the river’s muddy brink. Crowdy was breathlessly silent, waiting for more; he left his meal untouched, where it had been placed, and kept his eyes narrowly on his neighbour.

But that neighbour had evidently made up his mind to say nothing more; after a pause, he shuffled to his feet, and started to leave the place. As he neared the door, however, he came back again, and bent his face down to Crowdy’s ear.

“I say—yer won’t fergit Toosday—will yer?”

“What about it?” asked the other, as carelessly as he could.

“W’y—at the Watermen—o’ course,” whispered the Shady ’un, in a surprised tone. “Ten thirty, sharp. I suppose you’ll come wiv the Count—eh?”

“I suppose so,” replied Crowdy. “Good-night!”

Left alone, he thrust his plate aside, and sat staring at the table, turning the business over in his mind. In the first place, he had resolved to find Dandy Chater’s murderer; on the other hand, if, as was possible, the man spoken of as the Count had anything to do with that murder, it would obviously be impossible for Philip Crowdy to appear before him; the fraud would be exposed at once. Again, it was evident that the late Dandy Chater had kept remarkably queer company; and that, moreover, Philip Crowdy—as the new Dandy Chater—was pledged to meet some members of that queer company, on the following Tuesday, at half-past ten, at the house known as The Three Watermen.

“So far—so good—or rather, bad,” he said slowly to himself. “I’m Dandy Chater—for the present, at least; if the man who struck the blow happens to meet me, he’ll either die of fright, or denounce me. For the present, I’ve got to be very careful; I’ve very fortunately discovered one or two things which may be useful. But how in the world am I to know what Dandy Chater was doing, or meant to do—or what people he knew, or didn’t know? At all events, I must put a bold face on the matter, and trust to luck.”

It was not until he was undressing for the night, in the shabby little room which had been assigned to him over the coffee-house, that he remembered the interview he had had with the girl, on the road outside Bamberton. He stopped, and stood stock still, with a puzzled face.

“The girl—Patience Miller! I’d clean forgotten about her. Why, Dandy Chater was to have taken her to London, and they were to be married to-morrow. Now, Dandy Chater—or the real one, at least—is at the bottom of the river. But where on earth is the girl?”

He puzzled over it for some time, and finally, finding sleep stealing over him, gave it up, with all the other troublous matters connected with the past few hours, and slept the sleep which comes only to a man who is utterly worn out with fatigue and excitement.

He slept late the next morning, and had time, while he dressed, to consider what his future course of action should be. In part, he had made up his mind the previous night; had studied carefully the dress and appearance of the dead man, with that object—indefinite then, but clear and distinct now—of taking his place. He felt now that the first move in the game must be for him to get down to Bamberton.

“No one in England knows of my existence; only one man, so far as I am aware, knows, beside myself, of the death and disappearance of Dandy Chater. There is no one to suspect; so far as I am concerned, there is everything to gain, and but little to lose. Therefore, Mr. Dandy Chater the Second, you will go down into Essex.”

Watchful and alert—ready to take up any faint cue which might be offered him—suspicious of danger on every hand, Philip Crowdy got back to London; made some slight purchases, with a view to changing his dress; and started for Chater Hall. Arriving at the little railway station, he returned, with grim satisfaction, the salutes and nods of recognition which one and another bestowed upon him; got into the fly—the only one the station boasted—and was driven rapidly to his future home.

It was a fine old house, standing in most picturesque grounds—a place which bore the stamp of having been in the same family for many generations. Mr. Philip Crowdy rattled along the drive which led to the house, with very mixed feelings, and with a heart beating unpleasantly fast.

“I need all the luck I’ve ever possessed, and all the impudence with which nature has endowed me,” he thought. “Why—I don’t even know my way about my own house—shan’t know where to turn, when I get inside, or what the servants’ names are. And I wish I knew what sort of man Dandy Chater was—whether he bullied, or was soft-spoken—swore, or quoted Scripture.”

The fly drew up, with a jerk, at the hall door, which was already open. A young servant—a pleasant-looking lad, of about twenty years of age, in a sober brown livery, ran out quickly, with a forefinger raised to his forehead, and opened the door of the fly.

“Morning, sir,” said this individual, in a voice as pleasant as his face. “Hoped you’d telegraph, sir, and let me drive over for you.”

Crowdy alighted slowly, looking keenly about him. “I hadn’t time,” he said, gruffly—being convinced, for some strange reason, that the late Dandy Chater had been of a somewhat overbearing disposition. He walked slowly up the steps, and into Chater Hall.

There his troubles began; for, in the first place, he did not even know his room—did not, as he had already suggested, even know which way to turn. In desperation, he laid his hand on the knob of the first door he saw, and walked boldly in.

He found himself in what was evidently the dining-room. He turned, as he was passing through the doorway, and beckoned to the young servant, who had taken his hat and coat, and who was lingering in the hall.

“Here, I want you,” he said. His quick eye, roving round the room, had seen a pipe on the mantelshelf, and a spirit stand on an ancient Sheraton sideboard. “Get me a whiskey and soda, and bring me those cigars—the last lot I had.”

The servant placed the spirit stand at his master’s elbow, and hurried away to complete the order. Philip Crowdy leaned back in his chair, and laughed softly, when he thought of how well he was carrying the thing off. “I must be as natural as possible,” he muttered. “That was a good move about the cigars.”

The servant reëntered the room, bringing the cigars, and a letter which he handed to Crowdy.

“Brought this morning, sir, quite early,” he said.

Philip Crowdy, after a moment’s hesitation, broke the seal, and read the following astounding note—

“Dearest Dandy,

“You shall have your answer, sooner even than I promised. I do trust you; I do believe in your capacity for the better things of which you have spoken. I will marry you, when you like, and with a glad heart. Come and see me to-morrow night, and we can talk about it comfortably.

“Yours loyally,

“Margaret Barnshaw.”

Philip Crowdy dismissed the servant, with a wave of the hand, and sank into a chair helplessly.

CHAPTER III
BETTY SIGGS BECOMES ALARMED

Philip Crowdy felt, however, that there was no time to waste in vain speculation; he had plunged into a mad business, and it must be carried through at all hazards. Moreover, the more he came to think about it, the more the strong nature of the man rose up, to assist him to confront his difficulties. Essentially cool and calculating, he saw his desperate position, and saw, too, how the house of cards he was erecting might be fluttered down at a breath. At the same time, with the daring of a desperate man, he took the thing quietly, and determined to advance step by step.

Everything seemed to be in his favour. In the first place, there was evidently no suspicion, in the mind of any one he had met yet, that he was not the man he claimed to be—Dandy Chater; in the second place, the young servant who had first admitted him gave him the very clue he needed, and at the very outset. Coming into the room, immediately after Crowdy had finished reading the letter, this man asked:

“Excuse me, sir—but Mrs. Dolman would like to know whether Mr. Ogledon is coming down to-day?”

Philip Crowdy gathered his wandering wits, and faced the question. “Mrs. Dolman—that’ll be the housekeeper,” he thought, rapidly. “But who the devil is Mr. Ogledon?” After a moment’s pause, he looked up, and said aloud—“Can’t say, I’m sure. You’d better send Mrs. Dolman to me.”

The young man went away, and the housekeeper presently came bustling in. She was a trim, neat, precise old lady, with a certain dignity of manner belonging to her station. She inclined her head, and folded her hands, and hoped that “Master Dandy” was well.

“Old servant—been in the family all her life,” thought Crowdy. Aloud he said—“I really can’t say, Mrs. Dolman, whether Mr. Ogledon will be here to-day or not. By the way, Mrs. Dolman”—this, as a brilliant idea struck him—“I think I shall change my room—my bedroom, I mean.”

The good woman raised her hands in astonishment. “Change your room, Master Dandy! Why—I never heard the like! What’s the matter with the room, sir?”

“Oh—nothing the matter with it; only I want a change; one gets tired of anything. Just come upstairs with me, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Mrs. Dolman would have stepped aside, in the doorway, to allow him to precede her; but he waved her forward impatiently, and she went on ahead, and up the broad staircase, with her gown held up delicately in two mittened hands.

“Now,” thought Philip Crowdy, with a chuckle, “I shall know where I sleep.”

The old lady went before him, and softly opened the door of a room on the left hand—Crowdy taking careful note of its position. It was a beautifully furnished room, with huge old-fashioned presses in it, and with everything arranged with a view to comfort.

“There couldn’t be a better room, Master Dandy,” urged the old lady—“and you’ve slept in it as long almost as I can remember. There’s your dressing-room opening out of it, and your bath-room beyond that—nothing could be more convenient, Master Dandy. If you moved into the Yellow room, the outlook is pretty, it can’t be denied—but it ain’t to be compared to this. Of course, Master Dandy, you’ll do as you like—but I——”

Philip Crowdy had achieved his object. He looked round the room for a moment, and shrugged his shoulders. “No—after all, I think you’re right. It was only a whim of mine; I’ll stay here.”

As he seemed disposed to remain in the room, the housekeeper quietly took her departure, and closed the door. Crowdy threw himself into an armchair, and laughed softly. He felt that he was advancing rapidly; every fresh pair of eyes which met his, and in which he saw no gleam of suspicion, gave him confidence. His one desire was to do everything which the late Dandy Chater had been in the habit of doing, and, on the other hand, to do nothing which would seem strange or unusual. And here again luck was with him.

Mrs. Dolman, on retiring from the room, had not closed the door so carefully as she had imagined; the sound of two voices, in low converse, came to his ears.

“What’s brought ’im ’ome in such a ’urry?” asked the first voice—evidently that of a woman. “I thought ’e was goin’ to be away about a week.”

In the second voice, which replied in the same low tone, but somewhat aggressively, Crowdy recognised that of the young man-servant, who had already waited upon him. “Well—I suppose Master can do as he likes—can’t he?”

“Lor’—some of us soon gits put out, don’t we, Mr. ’Arry,” replied the woman.

“Good. Now I know his name,” muttered Crowdy to himself. Whistling loudly, he strode across the room and pulled open the door abruptly. The distant flutter of skirts announced that the woman had taken fright and fled.

“Harry,” he said, turning back when he reached the head of the stairs—“I’m going out.”

The man seemed, he thought, to look at him rather narrowly—almost frowningly, in fact. “To the Chater Arms, sir?” he asked.

“Yes—I may look in there,” replied Crowdy carelessly, and wondering somewhat at the evidently well-known habits of the late Dandy Chater. “I shall be back in time for dinner.”

Mr. Philip Crowdy took his way downstairs, selected a cigar with much care, and strolled out, after taking a walking stick from its place in the hall.

“A dead man’s house—a dead man’s cigar—a dead man’s walking stick!” he said to himself, as he went down the long drive. “I don’t like it; it smothers me. And yet—and yet——”

He did not finish the sentence; some thought was evidently running in his mind, to the exclusion of everything else. He turned away from the village, and made his way across some fields, and sat down, in the winter sunlight, on the footstone of a stile. Looking cautiously about him, he pulled from his pocket the papers he had taken from the body of Dandy Chater.

There was a cheque book, with one cheque filled up, even to the signature, but still remaining in the book. There was a pocketbook, with various entries in regard to betting, and to sporting engagements generally. And there were one or two letters, in the same handwriting as that seen by him that day. These last he read carefully.

They were couched in terms of friendly advice, and even of remonstrance—with sometimes a little note of anger to be read between the lines. Yet they breathed a very true and very disinterested affection, and were, in every way, full of true womanly feeling.

“Ah—Margaret Barnshaw—(sometimes she signs herself ‘Madge,’ I see)—that’s the lady who’s going to marry me—which is more than I bargained for, when I stepped into Dandy Chater’s shoes. Well, I’ll go through these more carefully later on. Now, as it’s evident that I am expected at the Chater Arms, I’ll make my way there.”

He did so; to the accompaniment of friendly nods, and rustic curtesyings and salutations. But at the Chater Arms he received a shock.

It was a bright little place—much better and more cleanly kept than the house he had patronised on the previous day. From its well sanded floors to the black beams which crossed its ceilings, it was a picture of comfort and prosperity. And, seated behind the hospitable-looking bar, was the neatest and trimmest landlady imaginable.

Yet it was precisely this landlady—or the sight of her—which gave Mr. Philip Crowdy such an unpleasant shock. As he entered the door, and she turned her head to look at him, he had but one glance at her; yet that glance was sufficient to sweep him back through many years, and across many miles of land and sea. If the woman had risen calmly and awfully from the grave, her appearance could not have been more startling to the man.

The landlady, for her part, appeared to be troubled in no such fashion by his appearance. She nodded—somewhat curtly, he thought—and evidently saw in him merely the idle Dandy Chater she had been in the habit of seeing almost daily for years past. Recognising the importance of keeping a steady hand upon his emotions, Philip Crowdy nodded in reply, and approached, and leaned over the bar.

“Afternoon, Master Dandy,” said the woman, fixing her eyes again on her work. Yet how familiar her voice was in his ears—and how he longed to jump over the bar, and take her portly person in his arms!

“Good-afternoon,” he responded. “And I wonder,” he thought—“what your name is now!”

There was a long pause; and then, in sheer self-defence, he ordered something to drink, adding, at the same time—“It’s so deadly dull up at the Hall, that I thought I’d look down to see you.” He stopped lamely, wondering if she expected him to say anything else.

“Very kind of yer, Master Dandy,” she retorted quickly, flashing her black eyes at him for a moment, as she set his glass before him. “Wouldn’t yer like to step into the parlour, Master Dandy?” she added. There was no graciousness about the speech, and she was evidently in a bad humour.

“Thanks—I think I shall do very well here,” replied Crowdy. “And, if you only knew, old Betty, whose eyes are looking at that dear old grey head of yours, at this moment, I think you’d jump out of your skin.” This latter, it is scarcely necessary to add, passed through his thoughts only, and not his lips.

Presently, to his astonishment, the old woman, after making several false starts, got up quickly, and came round the bar, and faced him; he saw that there was some extraordinary excitement upon her; he could hear one foot nervously beating the ground.

“Master Dandy,” she said, in a voice little above a whisper—“I must speak to you!”

On the instant, the man felt that she had made some discovery—that she knew he was not Dandy Chater. But, the next moment, he saw that this was a matter which had been consuming her for some time, and had now boiled up, as it were, and could be held no longer—some grievance which she imagined she had against Dandy Chater. Knowing that he had a part to play, he spoke lightly and easily.

“Well—I’m here; speak to me, by all means,” he said, with a little laugh.

“Not here—not here, Master Dandy,” she said, hurriedly. “If you would be so kind as step in here, there ain’t likely to be no one in this time o’ the day, Master Dandy.” She indicated, as she spoke, the door of the little parlour near at hand.

“As you will,” replied Crowdy; and he followed her into the room, inwardly wondering what was going to happen.

Inside the room, he seated himself upon a table, and looked questioningly at her. She was evidently at a loss how to proceed, for a few moments, and stood nervously beating her fingers on the back of a chair. When, at last, she broke the silence, her question was a startling one.

“Master Dandy—for the love of God—where’s Patience Miller?”

The man stared at her in amazement. He knew the name in an instant—remembered the interview, in the darkness and the rain, upon the road outside the village—almost felt again, for an instant, the warm pressure of the girl’s lips upon his. He shook his head, in a dazed fashion.

“How on earth should I know?” he asked, slowly.

“How should anybody know better, Master Dandy?” she retorted, in the same suppressed excited voice. “Master Dandy—I’m an old woman, and poor Patience, ’avin’ no mother of ’er own, ’as turned to me—natural-like—these many years. There’s been w’ispers ’ere, an’ w’ispers there, this ever so long; but it was only the other night as I got it all from ’er.” The good woman was quivering with excitement, and her fingers were beating a rapid tattoo on the back of the chair.

“All what?” asked Crowdy, faintly.

“The ’ole story, Master Dandy,” she replied promptly. “Ah—it ain’t no use your tryin’ to deny it, sir; I knows the truth w’en I ’ears it—’specially w’en it comes to me wi’ tears an’ sighs. You’ve led ’er wrong, Master Dandy—you know you ’ave; and now—wot’s become of ’er?”

“I tell you I know nothing about the girl,” replied Crowdy, doggedly.

The old woman threw up her grey head, like a war horse, and looked defiance at him. “Then, Master Dandy,” she said fiercely—“if yer turn me and old Toby out in the road, I’ve got to tell yer a bit o’ my mind. You’re a Chater—and you’ve got the Chater blood in you, I suppose—because I knowed your blessed father and mother, now in their graves. But there it ends; for you’ve got some other black heart in you, that never belonged to them. There’s not a man or woman, in the countryside, but wot won’t shake their ’eads, w’en they ’ears your name—an’ well you knows it. Oh—if on’y my boy ’ad lived, wot a Chater ’e would ’ave been!”

For some hidden reason, the man seemed strangely moved by that last despairing phrase from her lips; indeed, as she bowed her old face down on her hands, with a moan, he made a sudden movement, with outstretched arms, as though he would have taken her within them and comforted her. But when, a moment afterwards, she looked up, with the former stern expression settling on her features, the man was simply watching her keenly, with his hands thrust in his pockets.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, slowly. “What about your boy?”

She hesitated for a moment, even glancing round at the door behind her; then came a little nearer to him.

“I ain’t never said anything about it, Master Dandy, because I thought the story was dead and buried like my poor boy—an’ I didn’t think as ’ow talkin’ about it would do anybody any good. But it don’t matter now; an’ I’d like you to know, Master Dandy, that for all your pride—your wicked pride—you wouldn’t ’ave no right to be standin’ ’ere, as the master of Chater ’All, if my poor boy ’ad lived.”

The man was watching her, more keenly than ever; for the sake of appearances, however, he let a smile play round his mouth, and then broke into a laugh.

“Ah—you may laugh, Master Dandy. Wot if I tell you that you had a brother—an elder brother, Master Dandy, though only by a matter of minutes.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked the man; though only for the sake of appearances again—for he had heard the story from her lips, a long, long time before.

“The truth!” she exclaimed. “Not one child, Master Dandy, came into the world at Chater Hall, w’en you was born—but two—twins; an’ the other boy was the first. But your father was crazy on that one idea; I’d often ’eard ’im say that if ever twins came, ’e would find means to git rid of one of them. It was all done quiet and secret-like; ole Cripps was doctor ’ere then—an’ a drunken little rascal ’e was, though sound in ’is work. ’E’d ’ave done anything for money—that man; an’ pretty ’eavy ’e must ’ave been paid by your father for it. As for me—the Lord forgive me—I’d a notion of starting at the other side of the world, and making a business. So your father sent me off, with five hundred pounds, and the eldest boy—the eldest, because ’e seemed the weakest. ‘I won’t ’ave two boys, to fight over the property, an’ cut it up after I’m dead an’ gone,’ says your father.”

“Well—and what became of the boy?” asked Crowdy.

“Went to Australia, ’e did, the blessed mite—an’ growed fine and strong—lookin’ on me as ’is mother, an’ ’avin’ my name, as it was then—Crowdy; Philip Crowdy, we called ’im. Then I met Siggs—my Toby—an’ we ’adn’t been married a year, an’ I was full of care an’ anxiety, over a little one o’ my own—w’en Philip disappeared. ’E was ten then, an’ I told ’im the story, on’y a week or two afore ’e went—your father bein’ dead, an’ my lips sealed no longer.”

“A pretty story, Mrs. Siggs,” replied Philip. “And you never heard anything about this boy again?”

“Never,” she replied, sadly. “We did everyfink we could to find ’im; but we was livin’ on the very edge of the bush at that time, an’ the poor lad must ’ave got lost in it, an’ starved to death. Even men ’ave done that,” she added, with her apron at her eyes.

“And why did you return to England?” he asked, in the same dull level voice.

“I couldn’t abear the place, after we’d lost ’im; an’ things went wrong, an’ Siggs an’ me lost most of our money. Besides, I was always longin’ for the old place where I was born; an’ so at last we come ’ome, without nobody bein’ a bit the wiser, an’ took the Chater Arms—an’ settled down.”

Carried away by the remembrances of years, Betty Siggs had forgotten the real object with which she had started the conversation; she remembered it quickly now, and her tone changed. But it was no longer harsh; the remembrance of her boy, as she called him, had softened her, and she turned to the graceless Dandy Chater—(as she imagined him to be)—and spoke pleadingly.

“Master Dandy, won’t you listen to an old woman—won’t you tell me w’ere I can find this poor girl—Patience; won’t you——”

Philip Crowdy, remembering suddenly the part he had to play, got up impatiently, and made for the door.

“I tell you,” he said, with a frown, “that I know nothing about her. And please let us hear no more of such idle tales as these. Your boy, indeed!” He laughed, and swung out of the place into the road.

Yet, as he walked along, his heart was very sore, and his face was troubled. “Poor old Betty!” he muttered to himself—“she thinks I’m Dandy Chater—and a blackguard; what would she think, if she knew that the boy she lost in the bush was saved, after all; and that he stands here to-day, in his dead brother’s place, and under his dead brother’s name? What would she say, if she knew that I am her boy, as she calls me—Philip Crowdy—or Philip Chater?”

CHAPTER IV
A SUNDAY TO BE REMEMBERED

The sun, shining brightly over the trim lawns which stretched before Chater Hall, seemed to declare, deceitfully enough, the next morning, that winter was dead and buried, and spring come in full force to take its place. Philip Crowdy—or Philip Chater, as we must now call him—waking in the unaccustomed softnesses of a great bed, and gradually opening his eyes upon the luxuries about him, awoke as gradually to a remembrance of his new position; looked at it lazily and comfortably, as a man will who wakes from deep sleep; and then came to a full realisation of all it meant, and sat up quickly in bed.

“Yes,” he muttered softly to himself, nodding his head as he looked about him—“I am bound to admit that when one has slept—or tried to sleep—for a few weeks, in a narrow berth aboard an evil-smelling sailing vessel, with a scarcity of blankets, and no pillows worth mentioning, this”—he looked round the big bed, and smiled—“this is a very decent apology for Heaven. And—such being the case—I want to stop in Paradise as long as possible.”

He stretched out his hand, and pulled the bell-rope. In a moment or two, the young servant Harry made his appearance—coming softly into the room, and regarding his master with some surprise. Philip Chater, quick to take his cue from the other’s expression, glanced carelessly at Dandy Chater’s watch, which hung near his head.

“Rather early, Harry? Yes—I know it is; but I’m restless this morning. I shall get dressed at once. Put me out some things—you know what I want; I don’t want to be bothered about it—and get my bath ready. Oh—by the way”—he called out, as the young man was moving away—“I shall go to church.”

The servant stopped, as though he had been shot—even came back a pace or two towards the bed. The expression of his face was such an astonished one, that Philip knew that the day, from a point of view of good luck, had begun very badly.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Harry, with something very like the flicker of a smile about his mouth.

“I said,” repeated Philip Chater, slowly and emphatically, being determined to brave the matter out—“that I should go to church.”

“Very good, sir.” The young man had recovered his composure, and walked through into the adjoining bath-room, after another quick glance at his master.

“Ah—Dandy Chater was evidently not a professing Christian,” muttered Philip. “I’m half sorry now that I suggested going; but I suppose it’s best to take the bull by the horns, and plunge among the people I shall have to meet as rapidly as possible. Well, if they single me out as a lost sheep, and call me publicly to repentance, I can’t help it. But I shouldn’t be surprised if the living were in my gift; in which case, they may be disposed to forgive me, and treat me leniently.”

Finding, to his satisfaction, that the clothes belonging to the late Dandy Chater fitted his successor as accurately as though made for him, Philip went down to breakfast in an improved frame of mind. After breakfast, when he lounged out into the grounds, there came another of those little trials to his nerves, which he was destined thereafter often to experience.

Coming near to the stables, a dog—a fine animal of the spaniel breed—leapt out suddenly, with joyous barks, to meet him; came within a foot or two—sniffed at him suspiciously—and then fled, barking furiously. Turning, in some discomfiture, he came almost face to face with the servant Harry, who was looking at him, he thought, curiously.

“Something the matter with that beast,” said Philip, as carelessly as he could. “Have it chained up.” Turning away, and reëntering the house, he said softly to himself—“The moral of which is: keep away from the animals. They are wiser than the more superior beings.”

It was with very uncomfortable sensations in his breast that Philip Chater—after discovering, in his wanderings, a small gate and path leading direct from the grounds to the churchyard—strolled carelessly across, and entered the church. He had been careful to wait until the last moment, when the slow bell had actually ceased, before venturing inside; and it was perhaps as well that he did so. Fortunately for himself, he came face to face, just inside the porch, with an ancient man, who appeared to act as a sort of verger or beadle; and who was so much astonished at his appearance, and stepped so hurriedly backwards, that he almost tripped himself up in the folds of his rusty black gown. But he recovered sufficiently to be able to shuffle along the church, towards the pulpit, and to pull open the door of a huge old-fashioned pew, like a small parlour, with a fireplace in it. Philip was glad to hide himself within the high walls of this pew, and to find himself shut in by the ancient one.

But his coming had created no little stir. Although, having seated himself, he could see nothing except the windows above him, and a few cracked old monuments high up on the walls, he was nevertheless aware of a rustling of garments, and sharp whisperings near him. When, presently, he rose from his seat with the rest of the congregation, he discovered that his eyes, passing over the top of the pew were on a level with certain other eyes—gentle and simple—which were hurriedly withdrawn on meeting his own. Moreover, immediately on the opposite side of the aisle in which his parlour-like pew was situated, was another pew, in which stood a young girl—very neatly, but very beautifully dressed; and, to his utter embarrassment, the eyes of this young girl met his, with a gaze so frank and kindly, and lingered in their glance for a moment so tenderly and sweetly over the top of that high pew, that he wondered who in the world the young girl was, and what interest she had in Dandy Chater.

Again—another disquieting circumstance arose; for, when he got to his feet a second time, and almost instinctively looked again in the direction of those eyes which had met his so frankly, his glance fell on another pair, near at hand—a black pair, looking at him, he thought with something of sullenness—something of pleading. This second pair of eyes were mischievous—daring—wilful—kittenish—what you will; and they were lower than the other eyes, showing that their wearer was not so tall. And the strange thing about them was, that they flashed a glance, every now and then, at the other eyes—a glance which was one wholly of defiance.

“The devil’s i’ the kirk to-day,” thought Philip Chater—“and I wish I knew what it was all about. Dandy—my poor brother—you’re at the bottom of the river; but you didn’t clear up things before you went.”

The clergyman was a dear old white-haired man, who also gave a glance, of kindly sympathy and encouragement, towards the big square pew and its single occupant; and who preached, in a queer quavering old voice, on love, and charity, and all the sweeter things which men so stubbornly contrive to miss. And he tottered down the steps from the pulpit, with yet another glance at the big pew.

The service ended, Philip Chater sat still—and, to his infinite astonishment, every one else sat still too. Worse than all, the whispering, and the faint stirring of dresses and feet, began again.

“I wonder what on earth they’re waiting for,” thought Philip, craning his neck, in an endeavour to peer over the top of the pew. The next moment, the door of the pew was softly opened, and the ancient man who had ushered him into it, stood bowing, and obviously waiting for him to come out. In an instant, Philip recognised that the congregation waited, in conformity with an old custom, until the Squire should have passed out of church.

Rising, with his heart in his mouth, the supposed Dandy Chater faced that small sea of eyes, every one of which seemed to be turned in his direction; and every face, instead of being, as it should have been, familiar to him from his childhood, was the face of an utter stranger.

He thought hard, while he gathered up Dandy Chater’s hat and gloves—harder, probably, than he had ever thought before, within the same short space of time. And then, to crown it all, as he stepped from the pew came the most astounding event of all.

The young girl with the kindly eyes looked full at him, as he stepped into the aisle; hesitated a moment; and then, with a quick blush sweeping up over her face, rose to her full height—(and she was taller than the average of women)—and stepped out into the aisle beside him. Quite mechanically, and scarcely knowing what he did, he offered her his arm; and they passed slowly out of the church together, with the silent congregation, still seated, watching them.

Not a word was spoken by either of them, until they had almost crossed the churchyard; glancing back over his shoulder, Philip could see the people emerging from the porch, and breaking up into groups, and evidently talking eagerly. And still no word had been said between the two chief actors in this amazing scene.

At last, the girl turned her face towards his, (she had seemed quite content to walk on beside him, in silence, until this moment) and spoke. Her voice, the man thought, was as beautiful as her face.

“Well, Dandy dear—have you nothing to say to me?”

In a flash, light broke in upon Philip Chater. From the girl’s appearance, style of dress, and easy assurance with him, in the presence of a church-full of people he felt that this must be the Margaret Barnshaw whose letter he had read—the letter in which she promised to marry Dandy Chater. But, not being sure even of that, or of anything indeed, he decided to grope his way carefully; looking at her with a smile, he asked lightly—“What would you have me say to you?”

She clasped her other hand on his arm, and her face suddenly grew grave, and, as he thought, more tender even than before; her voice, too, when she spoke again, had sunk to a whisper.

“Nothing—not a word, dear boy,” she said. “You’ve said it all so many times—haven’t you? And I’ve sent you back, with a heartache—oh—ever so many times. But—from to-day, we’ll change all that; from to-day, we’ll begin afresh. That’s why I took your arm, before them all, to-day—to show them my right to walk beside you. Did you understand that?”

There was no reasonable doubt now that this was the Madge of the letter; unless the late Dandy Chater had made proposals, of a like nature, in other quarters. He answered diplomatically.

“Yes—I think I understood that,” he said. “I—I am very grateful.”

“Do you remember,” she went on, “what you said to me when last we met—when I told you you should have your answer definitely? Do you remember that; or have you forgotten it, like so many other things?”

“I said so many things, that perhaps I may have forgotten which one you refer to.” Philip Chater felt rather proud of himself, after this speech.

“You said—‘I’m going to be a stronger, better fellow than I have ever been before; you shall find me changed from to-night; you shall find I’ll be a new man.’ Do you remember that?”

It was a trying moment; and, for the life of him, Philip Chater found it difficult to keep his voice quite steady, when he answered, after a pause—“Yes—I remember.” For this girl, with her hands locked on his arm, and with her eyes looking so trustfully and confidingly into his, had heard those words, of repentance, and hope, and well-meaning, however lightly said, from the lips of a man she would see no more, and who was now washing about horribly, a disfigured thing, with the life beaten out of it. And the man who stood beside her, in his place—in his very clothes—was a fraud and an impostor.

“Did you mean it, Dandy dear? Was it true?”

He answered from his heart, and spoke the truth, in that instance at least. “Yes—God knows it was true,” he said.

They had left the road, and had turned through a gate into a little wood, which belonged, he supposed, to his own estates. Here, quite suddenly, she stopped, and held out both her hands to him. Very gravely—and, it must be said, with a growing anxiety which matched an expression in her own eyes—he took the hands in his, and looked, as steadily as he might, into her face.

“Dandy—my dear boy—as friends—as man and woman—we have said some bitter things to each other—have parted in anger, more than once. You have been wild, I know—have made some blunders, as we all must make them, in our poor journey here on earth. But you have sworn to me that those old tales, about you—you and Patience Miller—forgive me; I promised never to mention the subject again; but I must—I must—you have told me that all that story was mere malicious gossip. As Heaven is my witness, I believed you then; but tell me once again. Tell me,” she pleaded—“that no woman need hide her face to-day, because of you; tell me that—reckless and foolish as you may have been—no living creature weeps to-day, because of you.”

He paused for a moment; a dozen new thoughts and ideas seemed to dart through his mind. The name she had mentioned had brought again to his memory the scene with the girl, on the road outside the village, on the night of his first visit to Bamberton—the girl whom Dandy Chater was to have married, and who failed, after all, to accompany him to London. But, for all that, he had a double reason for setting her doubts at rest, and for speaking clearly and without fear. In the first place, the man to whom the question referred was dead, and beyond the reach of any earthly judgment; in the second place, Philip Chater was, of course, blameless in the matter. Therefore he said, after that momentary pause—

“Indeed—no living creature weeps to-day on my account, Madge”—he felt that he must attempt the name, and was relieved to observe no start of surprise on her part. “I have had your letter; I—I wanted to thank you for it. I wish I could think that I deserved——”

“Hush, dear,” she broke in, hurriedly. “All that is past and done with; haven’t I said that we start from to-day afresh. Perhaps—who knows?”—she laughed happily, and came a little nearer to him—“perhaps I’ve helped to change you—to make a new man of you. And I won’t believe a word that any one says against you—never any more!”

With a gesture that was all womanly, and all beautiful, she leaned suddenly forward, and kissed him on the lips. Then, as if half ashamed of what she had done, she released her hands, and, with a quick half-whispered—“Good-bye!”—sped away from him through the wood.

Philip Chater stood looking after her, for a few moments, in a bewildered fashion; then, presently, sat down on a bank, and let his head drop into his hands.

“Oh—it’s horrible!” he groaned. “Here’s a woman—one of the best in the world, I’ll be sworn—holding my hands, and kissing my lying lips, and swearing that she loves me, and will make a new man of me; and the man she loves lies at the bottom of the river. I thought this was to be a mere question of money; a matter of ‘the king is dead—long live the king!’ but when it comes to lying steadily to a woman, it’s another business altogether. Yet, what am I to do?” He sat up, and stared hopelessly before him. “If I tell her that her lover is dead, I break her heart, and endanger my own neck; on the other hand, to keep up this mad game requires more subtlety than I possess, and the Devil’s own cheek. What a mighty uncomfortable pair of shoes I’ve stepped into!”

He heard a sudden rustling among the leaves near at hand, and the next moment a girlish figure sprang out, and confronted him. Raising his head slowly, from the ground upwards, he saw, first of all, a very trim little pair of shoes—a gay little Sunday frock—a remarkably neat waist—and so up to a mischievous face, shaded by a wide hat; and in that face were set the pair of black eyes which had looked at him in so audacious a manner in church, and which were regarding him roguishly enough now.

“Mr. Dandy Chater”—the voice of this girl of about eighteen was imperious, and she was evidently not a person to be trifled with—“I want to know what you mean by it?”

The situation was becoming something more than merely humorous. Philip Chater pushed back his hat, and gazed at her in perplexity; and, indeed, it must be admitted that, to be accosted in this fashion by a young lady, of whose name he was entirely ignorant, was enough to try the stoutest nerves. However, remembering all that was at stake, and seeing in this girl one of a very different stamp to the woman from whom he had just parted, he asked, with what carelessness he might—

“And what’s the matter with you?”

The girl stamped her foot, and began to twist the lace scarf she wore petulantly in her hands. “As if you didn’t know!” she exclaimed, passionately. “I’ve watched you, since you walked out of church—and I know why you went there—for the first time since you were christened, I should think. Surely, you remember all you said to me last week—when”—the little hands were very busy with the lace scarf at this point—“when you kissed me.”

Philip Chater rose hurriedly to his feet; advanced to the girl, and took her by the shoulders. “Look here, my dear,” he said—and his voice was really very plaintive—“if I kissed you, I’m very sorry—I mean—I ought not to have done it. In fact, there are a lot of things I’ve done in the past—and I’ve left them behind. You’re a very pretty girl—and I’m quite sure you’re a good girl; but you’d better not have anything more to do with me. It’s only too evident that I’m a bad lot. I think—in fact I’m quite sure—you’d better go home.”

He turned away, and walked further into the wood. Looking back, after going a little way, he saw her crouched down upon the ground, weeping as if her heart would break. Hastily consigning the late Dandy Chater’s love-affairs to a region where cynics assert they have their birth, he retraced his steps, and raised the girl from the ground. She was very pretty, and seemed so much a child that the man tenderly patted her shoulder, in an endeavour to comfort her.

“There—don’t cry, little one. I know I’ve been a brute—or, at least, I suppose I have; and I——”

“No—you haven’t,” sobbed the girl. “And please don’t mind me; you’d better go away; you’d better not be seen with me. He’ll kill you, if he finds us together—he said he would.”

“Who’ll kill me?” asked Philip, glancing round involuntarily.

“Harry.” She was still sobbing, but he caught the name distinctly.

“And who the deuce is Harry?”

“As if you didn’t know! Why, Harry, of course—your servant. And he’ll keep his word, too.”

CHAPTER V
AN HONEST SAILOR-MAN

Philip Chater sat over the fire late that night, in a futile endeavour to see his new position clearly, and to decide upon the best course of action for him to adopt. Try as he would, however, the thing resolved itself merely into this: that Dandy Chater was dead, and that he (Philip), together with possibly one other man, alone knew of his death; that Philip Chater was accepted by every one—even the most intimate—as the real Dandy; that, in that capacity, he was already engaged to be married—had left a girl crying in the wood, that very day, whose name he did not know, but who obviously regarded him with considerable tenderness; and that there was, in addition, a certain Patience Miller, whom he was to have married, and who, up to the present, was not accounted for in the least.

“Altogether—a pretty state of affairs!” he muttered to himself, as he sat brooding over the fire. “Why, I don’t even know whether I’m rich or poor, or in what my property consists; I may meet Dandy Chater’s dearest friend to-morrow, and cut him dead; and, equally on the same principle, embrace my tailor, and hail him as a brother! I can’t disclose my real identity, for the question would naturally be asked—‘If you are not Dandy Chater, where is he?’ and I should have to tell them that he was dead—murdered—and I don’t know by whom. No; there’s not the slightest doubt that you are in a very tight place, Phil, my boy, and your only chance is to go through with the business.”

His thoughts strayed—and pleasantly, too—to the girl of more than average height, with the eyes that had looked so frankly into his own; he found himself remembering, with something very like a sentimental sigh, that she had held his hands, and had kissed him on the lips; remembered, too, with some indignation, that the man she supposed she loved had arranged to take another woman to London, on that very night of his death, and to marry her.

“The late Dandy Chater,” he said, softly—“twin-brother of mine, in more than ordinary meaning of the word—either you are a much maligned man, or you were a most confounded rascal. And it’s my pleasing duty to discover, by actual experience, whether you were saint or sinner. And I don’t like the job.”

Inclination, no less than the actual necessity for following out that part of the tangled skein of his affairs, led his thoughts, on the following day, in the direction of Madge Barnshaw. Yet, for an engaged man, he was placed in a decidedly awkward position, inasmuch as that he did not even know where the lady lived. Having recourse to her letter, he found it headed—“The Cottage, Bamberton.”

“Now—where on earth is ‘The Cottage’ situated,” muttered Philip to himself in perplexity, as he surveyed the letter. “As a matter of fact, she ought to have supplied me with a map, showing exactly how far away it was, and the best method of reaching it. Let me see; what shall I do? I know; I must sound the individual who is thirsting for my blood—Harry.”

Acting upon this resolution, he rang the bell, and requested that the young man should be sent to him. On his appearance, a brilliant idea struck Philip Chater, and he said, airily—“I am going to see Miss Barnshaw. I think I’ll drive.”

Harry, whose eyes had been respectfully cast in the direction of the floor, gave a visible start, and looked up in perplexity at his master. “Drive, sir?” he stammered.

“What an ass I am!” thought Philip. “She probably lives within sight of this place; and the man will think I’m mad.” Aloud he said—“No-no; what on earth am I thinking about? I mean, I’ll go for a drive—now; and call on Miss Barnshaw this afternoon.” He got up, and crossed the room restlessly; stopped, and spoke to the servant over his shoulder—spoke at a venture.

“By the way, Harry—I suppose you’ll be thinking of getting married one of these days—eh?”

There was so long a pause, that he looked round in astonishment at the other man. Somewhat to his discomfiture, the servant was gazing frowningly at the carpet, and tracing out the pattern on it with the point of his boot. Looking up at his master, still with that frown upon his face, he said slowly—“Don’t see as it matters, one way or another, Master Dandy, to anybody but myself. I don’t see any likelihood of it at present. What time might you be ready to drive, Master Dandy?”

Very wisely, Philip decided to leave the matter alone. It was in his mind—in the earnest desire which filled him to do something to straighten out one of the many tangled things Dandy Chater had left behind him—to say something to this young man, in reference to the love affair at which he only guessed; but so many other matters claimed his attention, and demanded to be straightened out, that he decided to leave the thing alone for the present. Therefore he said, somewhat abruptly—“Very well; I have no wish to interfere. And, after all, I shall not drive.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, as though he would have said something more; but finally turned, and left the room. In a few moments he returned, however, and announced—

“Miss Vint to see you, sir.”

Momentarily wondering whether this might not be some one else who loved him, Philip requested that the lady might be shown in; and there fluttered into the room an elderly lady—small, and thin, and dry-looking; indeed, she gave one the impression, from her appearance, of having lain by unused for a long time, so dusty was her aspect. She had hair of no decided colour, and features of no decided form; and her clothing—even her gloves—were of a neutral tint, as though, from long preservation, whatever of original colour they had possessed had long since faded out of them. But, with something of sprightliness, she came rapidly up to Philip, and seized his hand in both her own.

“My dear Mr. Chater—shall I, under the special circumstances, say—my dear Mr. Dandy?——”

“My dear lady,” replied Philip, lightly—“say what you will.”

“How good of you!” she exclaimed, and squeezed his hand once more. “The dear girl has but just told me all about it; and I hurried over at once, to offer my congratulations——”

“Now I wonder,” thought Philip—“which dear girl she means?”

“For I felt that I must not lose a moment. Madge has not confided in me, as she might have done, and I have had to guess many things for myself. But I must say, Mr. Dandy”—she shook a rallying forefinger at him—“that you are the shyest lover I have ever known.”

“Indeed—I am very sorry—” he began; but she checked him at once.

“Well—we’ll forgive you; only I had been given to understand that you were very different—that’s all. However—that is not what I came to say. Standing in the position I do, as regards Madge, I feel that I must make some formal acknowledgment of the matter. Therefore, I want you to dine with us—let me see—to-morrow night?”

“I shall be delighted,” replied Philip, mechanically. “By the way—what is to-morrow?”

“Tuesday, of course,” she responded, with a little laugh. “Ah—love’s young dream! I suppose all days are alike to you—eh?”

The mention of that day had brought to his mind a certain appointment he had. He remembered the hoarse whisper of the Shady ’un in his ear, in the coffee-house in Woolwich—“Toosday-ten-thirty sharp.”

“I’m afraid,” he said, slowly—“I’m afraid I can’t manage to come to-morrow. I—I have to be in London; a—a business appointment. I’m extremely sorry. Could you—pray forgive the suggestion—could you arrange for some other evening—or could you bring—Madge—here?”

“I had quite set my heart on to-morrow,” said the old woman, in an injured tone.

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” replied Philip again. “But I shall be coming in to see Madge, and we can make arrangements. If you are going back now,” he added, “please let me walk with you.”

“Thank you—but I am going down to the village,” she replied, as she backed towards the door.

She was gone, before he could quite make up his mind what to do or say; he watched her through the window helplessly, as she walked away from the house.

“Done again!” he muttered, savagely. “I thought I should be able to find out where the cottage was. Well—I must trust to luck, I suppose; I haven’t committed any very great errors yet.”

It seemed possible, however, that he might commit an error which would lead to his undoing, in this matter of the appointment at “The Three Watermen.” In the first place, if, as he suspected, the man responsible for the death of Dandy Chater was the man known as “the Count,” it would be obviously impossible for Philip Chater to keep the appointment. Yet, on the other hand, Philip was determined to know more of the surroundings and associates of the late Dandy Chater than he knew already; indeed, to do so was absolutely necessary. He had set his feet upon that road which was plainly marked “Deception”; and, wheresoever it might lead, there must be no turning back now. As Dandy Chater he stood before them all; as Dandy Chater he must stand while he lived, or until the cheat was discovered. Philip Crowdy was as dead as though he had never existed.

“There’s another man, too, with whom I am supposed to be in company—Ogledon, I think the name was; I wonder who he is? However, I’ll go to London—and I’ll attend this meeting, if it be possible.”