"And tell your wife not to speak about it." "I'll tell her, sir." "Because you see, Mr. Pond, as it is too late to undo what's done, it might get you into trouble." "I see that, sir," said Constable Pond, ruefully. "So there's an end of the matter. As for the handkerchief I'll take possession of it, and if it should happen that any question is raised concerning it--of which there is not the least probability--I will say that _I_ found it. That will clear you entirely." "I'm ever so much obliged to you for getting me out of the mess," said Constable Pond. Shaking hands with him, Dick accompanied him downstairs, and after receiving the latchkey and exchanging a few pleasant words with Mrs. Pond, he left the house greatly troubled in his mind. "There's more in this than meets the eye, Polly," said Constable Pond, when he had explained to her what had passed between him and Dick. "That young fellow spoke fair and square, but he's got something up his sleeve, for all that." "Oh, you silly!" answered Mrs. Pond. "_I_ know what he's got up his sleeve." "Do you, now?" said Constable Pond, refreshing himself with a kiss. "Well, if that don't beat everything! Give it a name, old girl." "Why, a sweetheart, you goose, and her name's Florence. He's going straight to her this minute." "Is he? Then I hope she'll be able to satisfy him why she was in Catchpole Square last night--always supposing that it was her as dropped the handkerchief there." Mrs. Pond was not far wrong, for Dick was now on his way to Aunt Rob's house, in the hope of seeing Florence, over whom some trouble seemed to be hanging. He tried in vain to rid himself of the belief that it was Florence whom Constable Applebee had surprised in Catchpole Square; all the probabilities pointed that way. In heaven's name what took her there at that hour of the night? Search his mind as he might, he could find no answer to the question. The handkerchief was hers, but there were a hundred ways of accounting for its being in the possession of another woman. Still, the longer he thought the heavier seemed to grow the weight of circumstantial evidence. Fearing he knew not what he accelerated his steps, as if swiftness of motion would ward off the mysterious danger which threatened the woman he adored, the woman who could never be his, but for whose dear sake he would have shed his heart's blood. CHAPTER XVI. LETTERS FROM FLORENCE. Aunt Rob, a healthy, homely woman of forty-five, was standing at the door of her house, looking up and down the street for the form of one she loved, looking up to heaven for a message to ease her bruised heart. A terrible blow had fallen upon her home, and the grief, the fear, the tortured love in her eyes, were pitiable to see. Before Dick was near enough to observe these signs of distress she had caught sight of him and was running towards him, the tears streaming down her cheeks.