The Shady ’un—giving his name, with much humility, as Shadrach Nottidge—threw himself upon the mercy of the gentlemen present. He was but an ’umble workin’ man—led astray by the villainies of Mr. Chater. In a moment of remorse, he had felt that Mr. Chater must be given up; he could not have slept in peace, good gentlemen, while Mr. Chater remained at large. Mr. Chater had told him that he was flying for his life; had begged him (the Shady ’un) to give him shelter. Declining to allow his white hands to be soiled—even by deputy—with blood, he had taken the earliest opportunity of handing Mr. Chater over to the Law. And he hoped it would be remembered in his favour. Mr. Andrew Banks—rising young barrister of the cheery smile—tried his hardest—badgered the Coroner—twitted Inspector Tokely—was sarcastic with the Shady ’un; but all to no purpose. The Coroner very clearly pointed out to the jury their obvious duty in this matter; reminded them that Law and Justice took no cognizance of a man’s social position; and generally spun his rope a little stronger. Finally, addressing Philip, begged to know if he cared to make any statement, administering to him, at the same time, the usual legal caution. “I have nothing to say—except that I am wholly innocent of this murder,” said Philip, quietly. The rest was a mere matter of form. The jury returned a verdict of Wilful Murder, against Mr. Dandy Chater, of Chater Hall, in the County of Essex; and he was duly committed to take his trial at the coming Sessions at the county-town. Toby Siggs made some faint protest, but was overruled; and the crowd surged out into the spring sunshine, and generally expressed the opinion that Dandy Chater was as good as hanged already. CHAPTER XVII CLARA FINDS A LODGING On the morning following that verdict of Wilful Murder, some one was astir very early at the Chater Arms; some one dressed hurriedly, while the dawn was yet breaking; some one crept softly down the stairs—pausing for a moment at one door, and seeming to catch her breath in a sob—and so went cautiously out of the house. It was Clara Siggs. But not the Clara Siggs of old; not the bright-eyed impudent little beauty, ready for a dozen coquetries—willing to exchange smiling glances with any good-looking lad who passed her. Quite another person was the Clara Siggs who went swiftly down the village street this morning, with a resolute purpose in her black eyes; so much had one night changed her. She hurried on, for a time, resolutely enough, until she was almost clear of the village. The houses were closed; in one window which she passed, a faint light—burning perhaps in some sick-chamber—seemed to bid scant defiance to the coming day, and crave that the night might be longer. But there was no sign of life anywhere else; the village might have been a place of the dead, for all the life there was about it.