"Why, I saw him come away this evening, just before I came back here, and Stephen Bennett went in instead. I can't say he looks quite the sort of fellow to be in charge of a big place like that all night--a fellow of his habits, too." "What do you know about his habits?" "Oh, nothing particular. But, of course, one can't help suspecting there's something wrong about a chap who draws the pay he does, and goes staggering about the streets with his arms full of children's clothes, and his own things looking like a beggar's." "Do you mean you think the lad drinks, or is dishonest? Speak out, Archie, like a man, and don't throw stones in the dark." "I don't want to do the fellow any harm," responded Archie, who felt that, in spite of his watching, he knew far too little to speak definitely; "but what I have seen of him I don't like, and that's a fact. I can't help thinking there's something behind. What business has he to be at the mill to-night, when the regular man's away?" "None at all, of course. Most likely Lingard has gone off on some errand of his own, and paid Bennett to take his place. But it is not regular or right, by any means; I don't like the idea of it at all.... I think I shall go round myself presently, and find out all about it." By the time Stephen got back from his round it was nearly nine o'clock. He sank into a chair, and leaning his elbows on the table, rested his head in his hands. "I'm a deal weaker than I was last week," he murmured; "but I must try and last out till father's back. I'll write to him now, and tell him how fast I'm going. If there was any one a bit friendly, I'd tell 'em about it all, and ask 'em to look after the little 'uns if I go quicker; but there isn't. They all seem against me and my rags. I thought Mr. Archie looked so kind at first, but I can see now he thinks worse of me than any." He got out some sheets of paper he had in his pocket, and pulled the pens and ink on the table towards him. He did not write very fast, and as he had a good deal to say, he was some time over his letter. About twenty minutes had passed, when the room seemed to get very misty. The pen dropped out of Stephen's hand, and he fell back, with his eyes shut, and his head against the rail of the chair. He had remained thus, asleep from very weakness, for about an hour, when he was suddenly aroused by a rough voice in his ear. "Wake up, skulker! your time's come at last." He opened his eyes, his heart throbbing violently, and there stood the burly form of Simon Bond. He looked bigger than ever in the dimly-lighted room; and as his great grimy face came nearer, and his strong hands grasped Stephen's ear and collar, he felt that his last moment had come, and even sooner than he had expected.