"But why did the Dumpling hit upon this particular house? Was it by chance, and because it was the first which came handy when he managed to evade his pursuers by scaling a wall and lying in hiding, while they went by? I don't think so. That he did escape by scaling a wall I have very little doubt; but I believe that he made his way to the house deliberately, and with set intention. It is quite clear to me that he has designs of some sort upon this house or upon its master. Even if the design were no more than a burglary, you may be tolerably sure that so clever a criminal as he doesn't attempt to burgle a house without first acquainting himself with the position of the different rooms, and all the difficulties which would be presented in getting in and in getting out. My belief is that the Dumpling chose this house for his hiding-place deliberately. Upon this house, for some reason of his own, he is keeping a watch, and it is from this house that I must set my counter-watch for him. I have a strange presentiment that it will not be long before we shall see him here again. Someone--something--there is in this house upon whom, or upon which, he has designs. It may be its master; it may be only its master's money. To-night, if you will be so good, so very good, Miss Carleton, as to trust me thus far, I want to conceal myself in the garden. If nothing comes of it, no harm is done. If any attempt is made to enter, I shall be there to frustrate it and to give the alarm. You perhaps think my request a strange as well as a foolish one. But listen. Whether the man, looking in at the broken window-pane of the conservatory, recognised me--whether he even saw me at all, I do not know. But I saw him, and for one second's space, before the white face of him disappeared, I not only saw him, but looked him full in the eyes. And in that second I saw something else. As in a dream-tableau, I saw that same man creeping stealthily, and at the darkest, deadest hour of the night, towards the same window, and through the same garden." CHAPTER XV. MY FRIEND THE DUMPLING. Romantic, Miss Clara may or may not have been; superstitious she certainly was not. For some reason of her own she had formed a not unflattering opinion of my intelligence--an opinion which, I fear, my reference to these dream-tableaux did not a little to shake. And when Miss Clara thought poorly of a person or of a thing, she said so with a directness which was somewhat disconcerting. Her comment on the words with which I closed my last chapter was: "Mr. Rissler, don't be a fool!" "I try not," I said lamely. "What's the particular folly of mine you have in mind at the present moment?"