“Don’t be so ’asty, Dandy,” replied the man, in an injured tone. “It ain’t for me ter say anyfink agin the Count—’cos ’e’s your pal. But you’re young at this game, Dandy, and the Count is a bit too fly. If you wants a fren’, as ’ll _be_ a fren’, don’t fergit the Shady ’un—will yer?” This last very insinuatingly. “Oh—so you’re the Shady ’un—are you?” thought Crowdy. Aloud he said—“Thanks—I can take care of myself.” “Ah—you wos always ’igh an’ mighty—you wos,” replied the other, with a propitiatory smile. “It ain’t fer me ter say anyfink agin the Count—on’y ’e’s a deep ’un, that’s all. An’ ’e’s got some new move on; ’e was a stickin’ like wax to you to-night—yer know ’e wos.” Philip Crowdy caught his breath. Here, surely, was some faint clue at last; for it was possible that the man who had been “sticking like wax” to the unfortunate Dandy Chater that night, might have stuck to him to the very last, down by the river’s muddy brink. Crowdy was breathlessly silent, waiting for more; he left his meal untouched, where it had been placed, and kept his eyes narrowly on his neighbour. But that neighbour had evidently made up his mind to say nothing more; after a pause, he shuffled to his feet, and started to leave the place. As he neared the door, however, he came back again, and bent his face down to Crowdy’s ear. “I say—yer won’t fergit Toosday—will yer?” “What about it?” asked the other, as carelessly as he could. “W’y—at the Watermen—o’ course,” whispered the Shady ’un, in a surprised tone. “Ten thirty, sharp. I suppose you’ll come wiv the Count—eh?” “I suppose so,” replied Crowdy. “Good-night!” Left alone, he thrust his plate aside, and sat staring at the table, turning the business over in his mind. In the first place, he had resolved to find Dandy Chater’s murderer; on the other hand, if, as was possible, the man spoken of as the Count had anything to do with that murder, it would obviously be impossible for Philip Crowdy to appear before him; the fraud would be exposed at once. Again, it was evident that the late Dandy Chater had kept remarkably queer company; and that, moreover, Philip Crowdy—as the new Dandy Chater—was pledged to meet some members of that queer company, on the following Tuesday, at half-past ten, at the house known as The Three Watermen. “So far—so good—or rather, bad,” he said slowly to himself. “I’m Dandy Chater—for the present, at least; if the man who struck the blow happens to meet me, he’ll either die of fright, or denounce me. For the present, I’ve got to be very careful; I’ve very fortunately discovered one or two things which may be useful. But how in the world am I to know what Dandy Chater was doing, or meant to do—or what people he knew, or didn’t know? At all events, I must put a bold face on the matter, and trust to luck.”