The Captain nodded darkly and rubbed his hands; contemplated his friend with admiration and begged him to proceed. “I nearly tore my clothes off my back, in getting through; but, once through, there was only a roof to slide down—a yard to cross—and a wall. Luckily I found a builder’s pole lying against it and scrambled up that; dropped over, and found that dear girl in the street. She brought me here.” The more they discussed the matter, the more evident it became that Philip must be got away before daylight. For a long time, the Captain ruminated over the matter, wondering what to do. He suggested, from time to time, the most absurd and impracticable disguises—even offering to lend his precious top-boots for the occasion. But at last a really brilliant idea suggested itself to him. “The circus!” he exclaimed, slapping his leg with much vehemence. “That’s the very thing! I’m a goin’ out to see them move the show, quite early to-morrow morning’—just to see ’ow it’s done. They’ve got to start precious early, so as to reach the town they’re a goin’ to in time for the performance at night. Now—wishin’ to identify myself with the business as early as possible—I’ve asked ’em to send in one of the caravans to fetch me—so as to make a sort of percession of it. As the show’s mine, of course they don’t mind a gratifyin’ a little weakness like that. Now—if you can’t ’ide in a caravan—w’ere can you ’ide, Phil?” “It sounds like the very thing,” replied Philip. “You can drop me quietly on the road, when we are clear of the town, and nothing need be known of me. But what of this girl, who has been so brave and loyal to me? I can’t leave her behind.” “That’s easy arranged,” responded the Captain. “Let ’er stop ’ere; the Missis ’ll be glad to give ’er shelter as long as you like; an’ you may be sure she’s in good ’ands.” Philip gratefully accepted the offer; and, neither of them being disposed for sleep, they sat and talked the night away, or such part of it as remained. Philip duly impressed upon the Captain the necessity for preserving silence concerning the real story of Dandy Chater—making his plea more forcible by telling the worthy man of the difficulties he might find himself in, should it become known that he had harboured a fugitive, or assisted him to escape. Soon after four o’clock in the morning, wheels were heard outside, in the quiet street, and a knock sounded at the door. The Captain—spying out the land from the window—signalled to Philip that all was right, and they prepared to set out. Mrs. Quist had come downstairs, and had announced that the girl was sleeping soundly.