“I dare say you think you have cause of complaint against me”—began the other, coolly; but Tokely burst in again, more furiously than ever. “Cause of complaint!” he almost shrieked. “When a man—and that man an officer of the Law—has a bump raised on his head, which compels him to wear his hat like a giddy youth on a bank-holiday excursion, and which prevents his lying with comfort in his bed—and the abettor of the outrage talks about cause of complaint!—I wonder, sir, what you will think when you occupy a cell, on account of this—eh, sir?” “I am extremely sorry,” replied Ogledon—“very sorry indeed that you should have been caused any inconvenience. My friend is not—not responsible for his actions at times—and he—he mistook you for some one else.” All this time, Ogledon was working round the Inspector, and watching him narrowly. The Inspector, for his part, respecting the size and apparent strength of the other, began to move away; but flung back a taunt or two as he went. “You shall hear from me again, sir!” cried the little man, savagely. “You and your decanter! You may like to know that I got my prisoner, after all.” “To the devil with your prisoner!” cried Ogledon without looking round. The little man stopped, although at a safe distance, and even came back a pace or two. “Oho!” he cried, with a vicious laugh—“I thought he was a friend of yours? I suppose you don’t own him now—eh?” “I certainly own no interest in any prisoners,” said the other, glancing round at Tokely for a moment, and then turning away again. “Indeed!” exclaimed the Inspector, more loudly even than before. “Yet you don’t mind living in his house, and knocking people about with his decanters!” “What on earth are you talking about?” asked Ogledon, with a new and sudden interest. The Inspector came a little nearer. “About your friend—Mr. Dandy Chater!” With this last shot, he turned and began to walk away down the hill. Philip, looking out cautiously, saw the man who had been addressed as Ogledon start, as if a blow had been struck him; hesitate for a moment, with a face that was ghastly; and then start off at a run after Tokely. The Inspector, who was totally unprepared for pursuit, was overtaken in a few strides; seized; swung round; and confronted with the startled face of the other man. “Stop—stop—and listen to me!” cried Ogledon, wildly. “What of this—this man—this prisoner—this”—he appeared to have some difficulty in getting out the name from his throat—as though it stuck there a little—“this Dandy Chater?” “Ah—that stirs you up a bit—does it?” said Tokely, grinning. “Let me tell you then, that your friend Mr. Dandy Chater lies at this moment in Chelmsford Jail, awaiting his trial for murder—ah—that makes your face turn white—eh?—murder committed in this very village.”