It was not until he was undressing for the night, in the shabby little room which had been assigned to him over the coffee-house, that he remembered the interview he had had with the girl, on the road outside Bamberton. He stopped, and stood stock still, with a puzzled face. “The girl—Patience Miller! I’d clean forgotten about her. Why, Dandy Chater was to have taken her to London, and they were to be married to-morrow. Now, Dandy Chater—or the real one, at least—is at the bottom of the river. But where on earth is the girl?” He puzzled over it for some time, and finally, finding sleep stealing over him, gave it up, with all the other troublous matters connected with the past few hours, and slept the sleep which comes only to a man who is utterly worn out with fatigue and excitement. He slept late the next morning, and had time, while he dressed, to consider what his future course of action should be. In part, he had made up his mind the previous night; had studied carefully the dress and appearance of the dead man, with that object—indefinite then, but clear and distinct now—of taking his place. He felt now that the first move in the game must be for him to get down to Bamberton. “No one in England knows of my existence; only one man, so far as I am aware, knows, beside myself, of the death and disappearance of Dandy Chater. There is no one to suspect; so far as I am concerned, there is everything to gain, and but little to lose. Therefore, Mr. Dandy Chater the Second, you will go down into Essex.” Watchful and alert—ready to take up any faint cue which might be offered him—suspicious of danger on every hand, Philip Crowdy got back to London; made some slight purchases, with a view to changing his dress; and started for Chater Hall. Arriving at the little railway station, he returned, with grim satisfaction, the salutes and nods of recognition which one and another bestowed upon him; got into the fly—the only one the station boasted—and was driven rapidly to his future home. It was a fine old house, standing in most picturesque grounds—a place which bore the stamp of having been in the same family for many generations. Mr. Philip Crowdy rattled along the drive which led to the house, with very mixed feelings, and with a heart beating unpleasantly fast. “I need all the luck I’ve ever possessed, and all the impudence with which nature has endowed me,” he thought. “Why—I don’t even know my way about my own house—shan’t know where to turn, when I get inside, or what the servants’ names are. And I wish I knew what sort of man Dandy Chater was—whether he bullied, or was soft-spoken—swore, or quoted Scripture.” The fly drew up, with a jerk, at the hall door, which was already open. A young servant—a pleasant-looking lad, of about twenty years of age, in a sober brown livery, ran out quickly, with a forefinger raised to his forehead, and opened the door of the fly.