“My God!” whispered Philip to himself, in an awed voice—“I’ve landed straight into the midst of some tremendous conspiracy. Dandy Chater—the Squire—the gentleman; yet Dandy Chater, the associate of thieves and footpads. Dandy Chater, professing love for the sweetest woman in the world, yet mixed up with scoundrels who are plotting to rob her! And, in the meantime, where in the world is this precious cousin of mine—Ogledon? Did Dandy Chater meet his death at that man’s hands, and is that the reason the fellow keeps out of sight? Well—two things are clear; in the first place, I have in my possession notes, which I believe to be stolen, to the extent of seven thousand pounds; and, in the second place, the gang from whom I escaped to-night are to plunder Madge’s house, on Friday next, soon after midnight.”
He began to pace up and down the room, in an agitated fashion; stopped suddenly, with a look of resolution on his face.
“Well—one thing is clear; I must find the rightful owners of this money, and restore it——Great Heavens—I can’t do that! This plunder belongs to Dandy Chater, and he belongs to the gang that stole it—and I—I’m Dandy Chater! Upon my word, I begin to wish that the good ship ‘Camel’ had struck a rock, somewhere on its voyage home from Australia, and had deposited me comfortably at the bottom of the ocean.”
Fully understanding the hopelessness of attempting to do anything, at all events at that time, Philip Chater put the notes under his pillow, and returned the slip of paper to his pocket. He had lain down in bed, with the full intention of putting off all thought until the morrow, when a remembrance of this same scrap of paper brought him suddenly upright in bed, in the darkness.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, softly—“I shall be able to find my way to the cottage easily enough, after all.”
He slept soundly through the night, and, quite early in the morning, set off for Bamberton—sending a telegram to “Harry—care of Dandy Chater, Esq., Bamberton,” to apprise that respectable young man-servant of the hour at which he desired to be met at the station.
“That’s another of the defects of my position,” he thought, savagely; “I don’t even know the name—the surname, at least—of my own servant. However, if there should happen to be more than one Harry at Chater Hall, I can blame it on the post office, and swear they left out the name.”
To his satisfaction, however, the Harry he wanted was awaiting his arrival at the little railway station, with the smart dog-cart in which he had driven before. But, ever on the watch for some sign of suspicion in those about him, Philip Chater noted, with a quick eye, that the pleasant manner of this young servant was gone; that he answered his master’s greeting, by merely touching his hat, and without a word in reply. More than that, he seemed to avoid Philip’s eyes as much as possible—glancing at him covertly, and, as it appeared, almost with aversion.
As they drove in the direction of Bamberton—Philip having the reins, and the young man sitting silently beside him—Philip broke an uncomfortable pause, by asking abruptly—“Anything happened since I went to town?”
For quite a long moment, Harry did not reply; Philip Chater, looking round at him quickly, saw that he was staring straight in front of him, down the long road before them, and that his face was rather white. “No, sir,” he replied at last—“nothing has happened.”