“Wot did you ’ave for supper?” was the extraordinary query propounded by Toby, after a thoughtful pause. “What the deuce has that got to do with it?” snapped out the Inspector. “Oh—nothink,” replied Toby, innocently. “On’y I thought you might p’raps ’ave bin dreaming’—that’s all.” Tokely muttered something decidedly uncomplimentary under his breath, and jerked down the blind—quite forgetting, in his rage, about the window. Moreover, being thoroughly roused from any sleep, or thoughts of it, he sat down near his bedstead, to think about the matter, and to decide how best he could visit his wrath upon some one for the offence on the morrow. Sitting thus, engaged with his own angry thoughts, he lost count of time, until presently he was startled by another sound of the striking of pebbles against glass. But the curious thing was, that it was not his window which received the attack this time, but another—for the sound was far less distinct. The Inspector quietly blew out his candle, and crept to the window. In a few moments, there was another little shower of pebbles; and the Inspector, quietly drawing aside the blind, peered down into the darkness. Then he heard the creak of a window being softly raised, and a bright light, as from a candle, fell on the ground below, and on a figure standing there. And this figure, raising its head, and looking up, revealed to the watching Tokely the face of Dandy Chater, who should have been, by all right and propriety, at that moment in Chelmsford Jail. “Little mother!” came in a quick whisper from below; and a voice—that of Mrs. Siggs—responded promptly in the same cautious fashion. “Oh, my dear, dear boy. Wait just one blessed minute, and I’ll come down to you,” cried Betty, softly. “Wait just one blessed minute, and _I_’ll come down to you,” muttered the Inspector to himself. “This is a piece of luck, indeed!” The Inspector crept away from the window, and began, hurriedly and noiselessly, to get into his garments. In a few moments, he heard, as he had fully anticipated, a rustling upon the staircase, and a quick footstep going downwards; immediately after, the cautious drawing back of bolts, and the turning of a key; then, the subdued sound of voices. The Inspector dressed with greater rapidity than ever. Meanwhile, Mrs. Siggs had drawn Philip into the little parlour, and had laid her old head—nightcap and all—upon his shoulder, and was crying comfortably. It was some time before she could compose herself sufficiently to listen to what he had to say; but she did at last, only punctuating what he said by an occasional sob.