Dead Man's Love

by Tom Gallon

  CHAPTER XIII.

  "THAT'S THE MAN!"

  Half-a-dozen surmises seemed to rush through my mind at that first sightof Uncle Zabdiel lying dead. The first--that he had tried to drive toohard a bargain with Bardolph Just, and had been caught in his own net;the next, that that badly-used youth, Andrew Ferkoe, had turned at lastand killed his oppressor. I thought, too, that perhaps some poorcreature he had driven to desperation, and ground hard in his moneymill, had chosen this way to pay his debts.

  One of the men ran off in what I thought was an absurd search for adoctor; the other stood waiting, and keeping, as I thought, a watchfuleye upon me. In truth, I was not altogether comfortable, for althoughUncle Zabdiel's lips were for ever sealed, I thought it possible that hemight have made the bare statement that his supposedly-dead nephew wasalive, in writing to the authorities. In which case, it might go hardwith me that I should be seen in the neighbourhood of the house in whichhe had been so recently killed, and that house, too, with its front dooropen. The man had set down the lamp upon the landing, where it lightedup the dead man horribly; he now began to put a few questions to me.

  "Had you an appointment with this gentleman?" he asked in a low voice.

  "Yes, I had," I answered. "An appointment on a matter of business. I wascoming to the house, when I saw you and the other man on your way here.May I ask who you are?" For I thought it better to pretend ignorance,although I knew well that these must be the men for whom Uncle Zabdielhad sent.

  "We are police officers," said the man, "and _we_ had an appointmentwith Mr. Blowfield for this evening. It seems a pity that we were not alittle earlier," he added.

  "You might have been useful," I added drily. "What should Mr. Blowfieldwant with you?"

  The man looked at me suspiciously, but did not answer. He turned to lookat the dead man with a thoughtful frown on his face. "This is the sortof case that absolutely invites murder, in a manner of speaking," hesaid. "A lonely old man--probably without a soul in the house--prettywell off, I expect; that sort of thing soon gets spread about among thesort of people to whom it's of interest. Of course, I couldn't sayoff-hand; but I should judge that robbery was the business here, andthat whoever did it has had to make a mighty quick exit, or they wouldscarcely have left the door as we found it. It's been a touch-and-gobusiness, and, as I say, if we had been a little earlier the oldgentleman might have been alive to tell us what he wanted to tell us."

  Now, although I had been resolute in my determination to end the matter,and to go back to my prison, I found myself thanking my stars that theold gentleman had not been alive to say what he had to say. Not that Ishould ever have found it in my heart to do him an injury on my ownaccount, and, indeed, I was a little horrified to find him done todeath in this fashion; but you must understand how great a relief it wasfor me.

  By this time the second man had come back, bringing with him a youngdoctor. The latter glanced quickly from one to the other of us, and thenknelt down on the stairs to make his examination. The first policeofficer stood near to him, holding the lamp; I, with the other man,stood below. In a moment or two the doctor looked up, with pursed lips,and nodded quickly to the man with the lamp.

  "Nothing for me to do here," he said quietly. "He's been dead about halfan hour--scarcely more, I should think. A weak old man like thiswouldn't stand much chance when he came face to face with a strong manarmed with that stick. He's had two blows--one clean in front, and theother at the side. He must have died almost on the instant. Anyonesuspected?"

  The man with the lamp shook his head. "We've only arrived here a matterof minutes ago," he replied, "having been asked by the old gentleman tocall here to-night."

  "What for?" The doctor, who had risen to his feet, asked the questionsharply.

  "This Mr. Blowfield," answered the man in a perplexed tone, "has writtento Scotland Yard, saying that if someone would call to see him he couldgive them information concerning a nephew of his--a man called NortonHyde. This nephew robbed him some time ago, and was sentenced to penalservitude. He escaped, and committed suicide rather than be captured; sothat I don't see what the old gentleman could have had to tell us."

  I determined that I would strike in boldly for myself; it would seemless suspicious than keeping silence. "Oh, yes!" I exclaimed, a littlescornfully, "he's had that idea for a long time--he was always talkingabout it."

  "What idea?" asked the doctor.

  "The idea that his nephew was alive," I said. "I daresay you mayremember the case of the young man?" I added.

  "Perfectly," said the doctor. "I wonder where the old chap got thatnotion from?"

  "We'd better go through the house, and see what has been disturbed,"said the first man, moving forward with the lamp. Then suddenly, after awhispered word to his companion, he turned again to me. "Were you afriend of Mr. Blowfield?" he asked, and this time I saw the doctor alsolooking at me curiously.

  "Oh, yes! I knew him well," I answered readily. "Believe me," I said,with a little laugh, "I am quite willing to give you every informationin my power concerning myself. My name is John New, and I am lodgingquite near here. I have been in the habit of coming backwards andforwards on various occasions; as you know, I came in just behind youto-night."

  "That's true enough, sir," said the other man.

  Now all this time I had quite forgotten the boy Andrew Ferkoe; andsuddenly it leapt into my mind that instead of being in the house, as heshould properly have been, we had seen nothing of him. My heart sank atthat remembrance, for I liked the boy, and had been sorry to think howbadly he was treated. I could sympathise with him more than anyone elsecould well do, for had I not suffered just as he had suffered, and hadnot I made shipwreck of my life because of this old man who had gone tohis account? I felt certain now in my own mind what had happened; AndrewFerkoe had turned at last upon his master, and had beaten him to death,and then had fled out of the house.

  The man with the lamp turned at the door of a room, and looked back atme over his shoulder. "Did you know anything about his habits, sir?" heasked. "Did he live alone?"

  I determined to lie. After all, they might not discover anything aboutthe wretched boy if I held my peace. "Quite alone, I believe," I said."There was an old woman used to come in to clean house for him, and cookhis meals; but only for an hour or two a day."

  "Just as I thought: this sort of party absolutely asks to be murdered!"he exclaimed.

  We found the place in great disorder. Drawers had been wrenched open,and the contents scattered in all directions; desks forced, andcupboards burst open. So far as we could judge, my Uncle Zabdiel musthave been in his bedroom at the time of the attack, and must have hearda noise, and come out, armed with that heavy stick of his. There couldnot have been any struggle, save in the wrenching away of the stick fromhis grasp; after that it had been a mere matter of the two blows, as thedoctor had suggested. The robbery afterwards had been a hurriedbusiness, bunglingly done. The great safe in the corner of thestudy--that room in which I had toiled so many years--was untouched;and, from what I knew of my uncle and his ideas regarding property, Ijudged that the murderer had got but little for that risking of hisneck. That he had tried to cover up the body from his own sight wasobvious, from the fact that he must have gone back into the bedroom, andso have dragged out the bed-clothing to put over his victim.

  "We'll go through the rest of the house," said the man; and I suddenlyleapt to the remembrance that they must discover Andrew Ferkoe's room,and his bed, and must begin to put awkward questions to me. I was onthe point of suggesting that I believed the other rooms to be empty;but, on second thoughts, I felt it best to hold my tongue, and to trustthat the boy might yet escape.

  So the four of us came to the door of the room, and the man with thelamp unsuspiciously opened it, and went in. He stopped with a gasp, andlooked back at us.

  "There's someone here!" he whispered. "In bed--and asleep!"

  Wonderingly we went forward into the room. The man with the lamp bentover the b
ed and turned back the clothes. Andrew Ferkoe seemed to rousehimself from sleep, and to stretch his arms; he sat up and yawned at us.For my part, I felt that he rather overdid the thing. His face was whiteand drawn; but then, it was always that. I confess I was a littlecontemptuous of the cunning he displayed; I was not quite so sorry forhim as I had been. There we stood, grouped about his bed, while he satup and looked round from one to the other of us.

  "What's the matter?" he asked.

  The doctor gave a short laugh. "Matter enough!" he ejaculated. "Do youmean to say you've been asleep?"

  "Of course," said Andrew Ferkoe. "What else should I go to bed for?"

  "Do you mean to tell us that you've heard nothing to-night?" asked theman with the lamp sharply. "No struggling--no crying out?"

  Andrew Ferkoe slowly shook his head. "I don't know what you're talkingabout," he said. "Who are you? I know that gentleman," he added,pointing to me. "What do they want, Mr. New?"

  I began to have a sneaking admiration for the boy, even though Ishuddered at him; I thought how wonderfully he played the game. Ianswered as calmly as I could.

  "Your master has been murdered, Andrew," I said--"brutally done todeath. Have you really been asleep?--have you heard nothing?"

  "Nothing at all, sir," he said, scrambling out of bed, and standingghostlike amongst us in his long night-shirt, and with his thin, barefeet and ankles showing. "I don't know anything about it."

  He began to whimper, looking from one to the other of us in a terrifiedway; I began to have my doubts whether, after all, he was not sincere,and had not really slept through the horrible business.

  "I thought you said that the old gentleman lived alone?" asked thepolice officer, turning to me.

  "When I said that I'd clean forgotten the boy," I answered easily. "Yousee, I've never been here except by daylight; how should I know thatanyone else slept in the house?"

  That explanation seemed simple enough, and, in a fashion, satisfactory.I suggested to the man that Andrew Ferkoe should be allowed to dress; Ipledged my word to look after him.

  "You see, you can hardly leave the boy in the house alone, after whathas occurred," I urged. "You have my address, and you can verify it ifyou like. Let me take the boy with me, and I will undertake to producehim for any enquiry at any time."

  I saw that they hesitated; it was the doctor who put in the final wordon Andrew Ferkoe's behalf. He had been looking at the youth curiously,had even put a hand on his shoulder, and had twisted him about to lookinto his eyes.

  "I shouldn't think much suspicion would attach to our young friendhere," he said. "A bit of a weakling, I should imagine, not very likelyto do any harm to anyone. Certainly it won't do to leave him in thisplace. Get dressed, my lad," he added to Andrew.

  As he turned away I heard him whisper to the man with the lamp, "He'sbeen asleep fast enough. I doubt if the old man even cried out. Thewhole attack would be too sudden."

  I waited with Andrew Ferkoe while he got dressed; the others wentdownstairs to move the body of Uncle Zabdiel. Once or twice I noticedthat the boy looked at me in a furtive way. I began to think that if hehad been innocent he would in all probability have said something, orhave asked some question. He got into his clothes rapidly, fumbling agreat deal with the buttons, as though his fingers trembled. Once helooked up, and opened his mouth as if to speak. I shook my head at him."Better not say anything, Andrew," I said in a whisper.

  He looked at me in a startled way, but finished his dressing without aword. We went out of the room together, and on the stairs I met thedoctor and the two men, who were waiting for us. It seemed that one manwas to remain in charge of the house, while the other walked with me tomy lodging to see that the address I had given was a correct one. In afew minutes Andrew Ferkoe and I were walking along in silence, side byside, with the police officer a little in the rear.

  In due course we came to my lodgings, and there the man left us. Iroused up the landlady, something to her surprise, and told her that Imust have another bed put into my room. I did not mean to lose sight ofthe youth until I had decided what to do with him.

  The woman very obligingly got out a little camp bedstead that was stowedaway in an attic, and I assisted her to rig it up in a corner of myroom. Then she bade us "Good-night," and Andrew Ferkoe and I were leftalone. And for a time there was silence, while I sat on the side of mybed and smoked, and looked at him.

  "Why do you look at me in that queer way?" he asked at last, in atrembling voice.

  "Look here, Andrew," I said solemnly, "let me say quite reverently thatat the present moment there's just God and you and me in this room, andGod understands a great deal better even than I do what you have had toput up with. Don't speak until I've finished," I exclaimed sternly,"because I want to give you a word of warning. If you want to tell meanything, let's hear it; if you don't want to tell me anything, go tobed, and try to sleep. But if you do speak--speak the truth."

  He looked at me round-eyed, and with his mouth wide open, for nearly aminute; then he gasped out a question. "Do you--do you really think Idid it?" he asked.

  "I don't think about it at all," I answered. "I'm waiting for you totell me--if you feel you want to."

  "I didn't do it--I never touched him. I should never have had thestrength or the courage," he began, in a shaking whisper.

  "But you were shamming sleep," I reminded him.

  "Of course I was," was his surprising answer. "What else could I do? Ididn't know who you were, or who was coming into the place, and I'd seenenough in the way of horrors for one night to last me all my life." Heshuddered, and covered his face with his hands, and dropped down on tohis bed.

  "Seen enough horrors!" I echoed. "What had you seen?"

  He looked up at me, and began his extraordinary story. "I went to bed along time before old Blowfield," he said. "I think I went to sleepalmost at once; I generally do, you know. At all events I didn't hearthe old man come up to his room. When I first woke up I heard a noisedown below in the house, just like somebody wrenching open a shutter. Igot horribly frightened, and I put my head under the bedclothes, andkept very still; it was just like that night when you broke in and cameto my room. After a time the noise stopped, and I began to wonderwhether someone had tried to get in and couldn't, or whether they hadreally got into the house. It must have been about a quarter of an hourafter that--only it seemed ever so much longer--that I first heard oldBlowfield cry out."

  I felt certain now that he was speaking the truth. Watching himnarrowly, I saw the terror grow in his eyes at the recollection of whathe had heard and seen in that grim old house. I nodded to him to go on.

  "I heard old Blowfield shout out, 'Who's there?'" went on the youth. "Heshouted that twice, and I got so excited that I crept out of my room inthe dark, and leaned over the rail at the top of the staircase. I sawold Blowfield standing there, and just below him was a man, and the manwas crouching as if he was going to spring. Old Blowfield struck at himwith the stick--he was holding a candle in his left hand, so that hecould see what he was doing--and the man dodged, and caught the stick,and pulled it out of his hand. The man struck old Blowfield once, and hewent down and lay still; and then he struck him again."

  "Why didn't you raise an alarm?" I asked, somewhat needlessly.

  "What good would that have been?" murmured Andrew Ferkoe resentfully. "Icould see that the man didn't think there was anyone else in the house.What chance should I have had if he'd caught sight of me? I don't knowwhether I made any noise, but while he stood there with the stick in hishands he looked up towards where I was, but he didn't see me. Then hewent back into the bedroom and came out, dragging the bedclothes; hethrew them on top of the old man. When he went down into the house Islipped back into my room and got into bed; I simply dared not move ormake a sound."

  "How long did you stop like that?" I asked.

  "I don't rightly know," was his reply, as he shook his head. "It seemeda long time, and at first I could hear him moving about the house h
ereand there, and then there was a silence. I had just got out of bed,meaning to go down, when I heard another movement in the house, and thenvoices. And I lay there, trembling so that I could feel the bed shakingunder me, until at last, after what seemed hours, I heard people comingup the stairs, and coming into my room. And then I gave myself up forlost, and tried hard to pray. I thought if I pretended to be asleep theywouldn't kill me, and so I pretended. You may imagine how relieved Ifelt when I opened my eyes and saw you."

  "That's all very well, my young friend," I said, "but why in the worlddidn't you tell the truth at once, and say what you'd seen? Why did youlie, and say that you had been asleep and had heard nothing?"

  He looked at me with an expression of cunning on his lean face.

  "Who was going to believe me?" he asked. "Even you had heard me say howbadly the old man had treated me, and how I wished I had the courage tokill him; even you believed to-night, first of all, that I had done it.If I had told any story about a man coming into the place and killingold Blowfield, and going again, they would have laughed at me. I was ina tight corner, and the only thing I could do was to pretend that I hadslept through it all."

  I saw the reasonableness of that argument; it might have gone hard withthe boy if for a moment suspicion had fallen upon him. "Did you see theface of the man clearly?" I asked, after a pause. "What was he like?"

  "He was a small man, stooping a little," said Andrew Ferkoe. "I shouldthink he would be about forty-five or fifty years of age. He was dressedlike a labourer."

  Instantly I remembered the man I had seen on the previous eveninglurking outside the house; I wished now that I had taken more note ofhim. I began to wonder who it could be, and whether it was only somechance loafer who had selected that house as one likely to suit hispurpose for burglary. It could scarcely have been anyone who knew UncleZabdiel's habits well, or he would not have been surprised on the stairsas he had been; for the fact that he had to snatch a weapon from thehand of the old man proved, I thought, that he had not gone theremeaning to kill. For the matter of that, few men enter a place with thatdeliberate intention; it is only done in the passion of the moment, whenthey must strike and silence another, or suffer the penalty for whatthey have done.

  Long after the boy was in bed and asleep I sat there watching him. Evennow my mind was not clear of doubts concerning Andrew Ferkoe, smooththough his tale was. I wondered if all he had told me was true, or if,after all, he had seized that occasion to strike down the old man, andso pay off old scores. I knew that for the present I must leave thematter, and must wait for time or chance to elucidate the mystery.

  It must have been about the middle of the night when I found myselfsitting up in bed, very wide awake, with one name seeming to din itselfinto my ears. I wondered why I had not thought of it before.

  "William Capper!"

  It had been a little man, who walked with drooping shoulders, a man whomight be forty-five or fifty years of age. Well, Capper was older thanthat, but then Andrew Ferkoe had only seen the man in the dim light of acandle.

  And the motive? That was more difficult to arrive at, although even Ithought there I saw my way. Capper I knew was determined to killBardolph Just if he could, and he would know that Bardolph Just had goneto the house of Zabdiel Blowfield. What more natural than that he shouldhave seen him arrive, but should have missed him when he went away; thatwould explain the man in labouring clothes I had seen hanging about nearthe house. Capper would know that he must put on some sort of disguisein order to bring himself into the presence of the doctor, and in orderto lull the other's dread of him. I was convinced now that it was Capperwho had forced his way into the house late at night, and, findinghimself suddenly confronted by a man who demanded his business, hadaimed a blow at him at the same time, and killed Zabdiel Blowfield onthe impulse of the moment. I lay down again, firmly convinced that I hadarrived at a proper solution of the matter.

  I further questioned Ferkoe in the morning, and all that he told meserved the more to settle the thing in my mind. I wondered if by anychance Capper would be discovered; I wondered also whether, after all, Ihad been mistaken in my estimate of him, and whether the sudden gusts ofpassion that had swept over him on the two occasions in regard toBardolph Just might not have been real madness, and might, in this lastcase, have found their victim in a man with whom Capper had nothing todo. In that case he was merely a harmful lunatic, dangerous to anyonewhen those gusts of passion swept him.

  I found that during the next day or two I was pretty closely watched andinterrogated by one and another, and more than once I trembled for myliberty, and even for my life. For you will understand that I wassurrounded now, more than ever, by dangers of every sort; if it couldonce have been proved or even suggested that I was that convict nephewof the dead man, it would have gone hard with me. For here was I,masquerading under another name, and actually walking up to the house onthe night of the murder. And had not Zabdiel Blowfield actually statedin writing that he could tell the authorities something concerning hisnephew, Norton Hyde? The motive was clear; it had been vitally necessarythat I should silence Uncle Zabdiel at all costs.

  So I argued the matter, and I remembered uneasily enough that thatweakling, Andrew Ferkoe, knew who I really was, and might, in case ofextremity, give my secret away. On the other hand it turned out that thepolice had found a scrap of writing in the house, which gave the nameand address of Dr. Bardolph Just, so that that gentleman was broughtinto the business, in order that questions might be asked of him. I hadgone down to the house, and there we came face to face.

  There was no necessity for me to ask him what he thought about thematter; I read in his face that he was certain in his own mind that Iwas the man. I should not have spoken to him at all, because when next Ifought him I meant to fight with other weapons than my tongue, but hecame up to me, and looked at me with that evil grin of his.

  "This is a bad business," he said. "I understand that you were herealmost immediately after the thing was done, eh?"

  "Yes, and not before," I replied in a whisper. "You're on the wrongtrack, I assure you. I've had nothing to do with the matter."

  I saw that he had something more to say to me. When presently I left thehouse he strolled along by my side. His first words were startlingenough, in all conscience.

  "Well, so for the moment you have succeeded," he said quietly.

  I turned and stared at him; I did not understand in the least what hemeant. "In what have I succeeded?" I asked. "Don't I tell you that I'mnot responsible for the business we've just been talking about."

  "You know what I'm referring to," he said, harshly. "I'm speaking of thegirl."

  I had learnt wisdom, and I controlled myself with an effort. "What ofher?" I asked carelessly.

  I saw his eyes flash, and noticed that his teeth were clenched hard ashe strode along beside me. "You've got her!" he burst out at last, "butyou shan't keep her. You've been wise enough, too, to hide her awaysomewhere where you don't go yourself. I've had you watched, and I knowthat. But I'll find her, and if I don't find her within a certain time,determined on by myself, I'll tell my story, and you shall hang!"

  I was on the point of blurting out that I knew nothing about the matter,but on second thoughts I held my tongue. I guessed in a moment thatDebora must have made her escape from the house, and must be somewherein hiding, and, of course, she would not know where to communicate withme. My heart leapt at the thought that she was free; it sank again atthe thought that she might be penniless and unprotected amongststrangers. At the same time I decided that I would not give him anyundue advantage over me, by letting him understand that I did not knowwhere the girl was. I merely shrugged my shoulders and laughed.

  "You can take my warning, and make the most of it," he said abruptly."If Debora does not return to me within the time I have mapped out--andI shall not even tell you what that time is--I tell what I know to theright people."

  I remembered what Debora had said to me about her certainty t
hat thisman had caused the death of Gregory Pennington; I had a shot at thatmatter now. "And some explanation will be needed regarding the man youallowed to be shut away in a grave in Penthouse Prison," I said quietly.

  He turned his head sharply, and looked at me. I regarded him steadily."That's a matter you'll have to explain," he said, with a grin.

  "I?" It was my turn to look amazed.

  "Yes--you," he said. "I've got my story ready when the time comes, Iassure you. All I've had to do with it has been the covering up of yourtraces; that was only pity for a forlorn wretch, hunted almost to death.The changing of the clothes was your business. I don't see how itaffects me."

  We had come to a point where he was turning off in one direction and Igoing in another. I gave him my final shot at parting. "Not if GregoryPennington really committed suicide," I said.

  I looked back when I had gone a little way, and saw Bardolph Just in thesame attitude in which I had left him, looking after me. It was asthough I had stricken him dumb and motionless with what I had said, andI was now more than ever convinced that Debora had been right in herconjecture. I had done one good thing, at least; he would scarcely dareto carry out his threat of exposing me; he might think that I had someinside knowledge of which he was ignorant.

  Meanwhile I was seriously troubled about Debora. It was impossible forme to know what had become of her, or where she was; my only hope wasthat there might be an accidental meeting between us. The various placesknown to us both were known also to our enemies; if Debora had gone tothe house of Uncle Zabdiel she would in all probability have been seenthere by Bardolph Just, or by some one in his pay. Similarly, she would,of course, keep as far away as possible from his house and from thecottage where once I had left her with Harvey Scoffold. I roamed thestreets, looking into every face that passed me, yet never seeing theface for which I longed.

  An inquest on Uncle Zabdiel took place in the ordinary course, and acertain John New gave evidence of his slight acquaintance with themurdered gentleman, and of what he had seen on the night of the murder.The astounding fact that Andrew Ferkoe had slept through the wholebusiness came out in court, and was the immediate cause of someextraordinary newspaper headlines, in which more than one reporterdeveloped a hitherto undiscovered talent for wit at Andrew's expense. Itmay be wondered at, perhaps, that I should have persuaded the boy tostick to his original story, but, apart from anything else, I had strongreasons for preventing any suspicion falling upon the man Capper, and,above all, I did not for a moment believe that Andrew Ferkoe's realstory would be believed. I had grown to believe it myself, but I thoughtthat for many reasons it might be well if Ferkoe left it to be imaginedthat he had really slept, and had seen nothing.

  So the matter remained a mystery, with only one curious element in it,for me at least, and that was a little point that came out in theevidence. It seemed that no finger prints had been discovered anywhere,although many things in the house had been handled. It was obvious thatthe murderer had worn gloves. That seemed to point to a moreprofessional hand than that of poor Capper, and served a little to upsetmy theory, but on the whole I believed it still.

  I was to be undeceived, nevertheless, and that within a little time. Onthe very day of the inquest, when Andrew Ferkoe and myself were walkingaway, we turned, with almost a natural impulse, towards the house whichhad been the scene of the tragedy--perhaps you may call that a morbidimpulse. It was a place that would always have a curious attraction forme, by reason of the fact that the greater part of my life had beenspent there, and that I had seen many curious things occur there, andthat once poor Debora had taken refuge in it. It was all ended now withthe death of the man who had worked so much harm to me; I was thinkingabout it all as I stood outside the place, when I felt my arm clutchedconvulsively, and looked round, to see that Andrew Ferkoe, with adropping jaw, was staring at a man who was standing at a little distancefrom us, also watching the house--a man dressed as a labourer.

  "What's the matter?" I whispered. I could not see the man's face fromwhere I stood; his cap was drawn down at one side, so as partially toconceal it.

  "That's the man!" whispered Andrew, in a shaking voice. "I know theclothes, and I saw his face for a moment when he turned this way."

  "Pull yourself together, and don't look as if you'd seen a ghost," Iwhispered sharply. "We'll follow the man, and see where he goes. As hehasn't seen you, go on ahead a bit, and then turn so that you can seehis face; then come back to me."

  The youth hurried away; walked past the man with his long stride; thencame back. I saw the man glance at him for a moment sharply as he camepast; then Andrew came up to me, his face white with excitement.

  "That's the man! I'm certain of it," he said.

  We walked for a long way after the man, until at last he seemed to havesome suspicion concerning us. Once or twice he stopped, and, of course,we stopped also; then at last he turned about, and came straight backtowards where we waited.

  He carried his head low, but I thought I knew the bend of his shoulders;I was convinced that in a moment he would look up, and I should seeWilliam Capper looking at me.

  But I was wrong. For when he looked up, with a sullen glance ofdefiance, I saw that it was George Rabbit!