She looked at him in perplexity for a moment, and then, following the direction of his eyes, and of a hasty movement he made towards the door, opened it swiftly, and looked into the hall. She beckoned to Cripps, who got up somewhat diffidently, and came into the room. He had had time to think about the matter while he sat alone in the hall. Having a deadly fear of Ogledon, and of his own connection with those shady characters at Woolwich, he had come to the conclusion that the less he said the better would it be for him. At the same time, he wanted money; and, if this woman wanted information, she must pay for it, no matter how meagre that information might be. Putting on an air of deep humility, he faced the girl, hat in hand, and waited for her to speak. “I am told,” she said at last, in a low voice, “that you have something to tell me, concerning Mr. Dandy Chater—something that may help him—perhaps save him from the fate which seems to be sweeping down upon him. Will you tell me what you know?” Cripps moistened his lips with his tongue—looked all round the room—looked into his hat—and finally raised his eyes to her face. “Owing to circumstances I cannot explain, my dear young lady,” he said, in his weak treble—“I run a very great risk in telling you anything; so great a risk that—I hardly know how to put the matter—that it will be necessary for you—or any one else—to make it worth my while to say anything.” “If you can help him—if you can tell me anything of service—you shall be paid liberally,” she responded eagerly. The weak eyes of the little man twinkled and he moistened his lips again. “I want—say fifty pounds?” he hazarded. “It is yours. Tell me what you know.” “I should like”—he hesitated, and turned his hat round and round—“I should like an open cheque—first.” She went straight to a desk in a corner of the room; was busy for a moment; and then looked round at him. “To whom shall I make it payable?” she asked. “Cripps is my name—Dr. J. Cripps, if you please.” She brought him the piece of paper, and he read it greedily and thrust it in his pocket; seemed to hesitate a little longer; and finally said what he had made up his mind to say. “My dear young lady—I am not usually sober enough to give a clear opinion upon anything; force of circumstances has kept me sober for nearly a week, and I am clearer about the head than usual. I can only say this: to the best of my knowledge and belief, there are two Dandy Chaters.” “Two!” she echoed, in a whisper. “Two. One was fished out of the Thames some days ago, and has been buried as an unknown man; the other is in Chelmsford Jail—or wandering about the country—I don’t know which. I only know that there are two of them.” “But—great heavens, man,” she cried—“I have known one Dandy Chater since his boyhood; we have grown up side by side. What other man can there be in his likeness?”