“Now Phil, my boy—you’ve got to be very careful. There’s no getting away from the fact that you are not wanted—and you certainly will not be welcome. The likeness is all right; I’ve seen a picture of the respected Dandy Chater—and there’s nothing to be feared, from that point of view. The only thing is, that I must feel my way, and know exactly what I am doing. And, for the moment, darkness suits me better than daylight. My first business is to get as near to Dandy Chater as possible, and observe him.” The tall man, bringing his ruminations to a close, sat for a moment or two, deep in thought—so deep in thought, indeed, that he did not hear the sound of light steps approaching him, from the direction of the village; and was absolutely unaware that there was any other figure but himself in all the landscape, until he felt a light touch on his shoulder, and started hurriedly to his feet. Facing him, in the semi-darkness, was a young girl, who, even by that light, he could see was unmistakably pretty. She was quite young, and, although her dress was poor and common, there was an indefinable air of grace about her, which set her apart—or seemed to do, in the man’s eyes—from any mere rustic girl. To his surprise, she stood quite still before him, with her eyes cast down, as though waiting for him to speak. After a moment or two of embarrassing silence, Mr. Philip Crowdy spoke. “What is the matter?” he asked, in a low voice. The girl raised her eyes—and very beautiful eyes they were, too, although they seemed haggard and red, and even then had the traces of tears in them—and looked steadily at him. Even though the man knew that he had been mistaken by her for some one else, there was no start of surprise on her part; he knew, in an instant, that she thought she saw in him the person she wanted. “Dandy, dear,” she said, appealingly—and her voice had a faint touch of the rustic in it—“you promised that you would see me again to-night.” The man had given a faint quick start of surprise, at the mention of the name; he turned away abruptly—partly in order to have time to collect his thoughts, partly to hide his face from her. “Better and better!” he muttered to himself. “Nearer and nearer! Now—who on earth is this, and what is Dandy Chater’s little game?” “I can’t go down to the village, Dandy,” went on the girl piteously. “You know why I can’t go. You promised to meet me to-night, in the little wood behind the mill—didn’t you, Dandy?” “Yes—yes—I know,” replied the man, impatiently. In reality, in this sudden surprising turn of events, his one object was to gain time—to give such replies as should lead her to state more fully who she was, and what her errand might be. “What then?” “Don’t be hurt, Dandy dear,” the girl went on, coming timidly a little nearer to him. “You know how much it means to me—my good name—everything. I was afraid—afraid you might—might forget.”