“I tell yer wot it is, young man,” replied the Captain, slowly—“you’ll be a gettin’ me into serious trouble, you will—alonger yer counts and things. I stepped into the bar, an’ I orders a drop of rum—just to ease conversation a bit; an’ I ses—off-hand like—‘’As the Count come in?’ The man was a drawin’ the rum, and ’e ses, without lookin’ up—‘No—nobody ain’t seen the Count for some days.’ Then ’e looks up—seems surprised—an’ ses—‘Who wants to know?’ I tells ’im a pal o’ mine was wishful to know about the Count. Well—Phil, my boy—the man looks at me very ’ard; and presently I see ’im a w’isperin’ to some one, wot ’ad slipped in on the quiet—an’ a lookin’ at me. So I strolls out—careless like—an’ I ’adn’t gone far, w’en I found as I was bein’ followed—and by the bloke as called you ‘Mr. Chater’ not an hour ago.” “What—the Shady ’un?” exclaimed Philip. “Shady or not, there ’e was; but I soon settled ’is business,” replied the Captain. “As ’e was a sneakin’ past a little shop, with steps a leadin’ down into it, I turns round on a sudden, an’ lands ’im one on wot I may call the fore-’atch—an’ down ’e tumbles into that shop. In fact,” added the Captain, with a fine air of carelessness—“the last I see of ’im, ’e was on ’is back, an’ the female wot kep’ the shop was a layin’ into ’im proper with a broom, an’ yellin’ ‘Fire!’ Accordingly, I left ’im, an’ cut on ’ere, as ’ard as I could.” “You’re a good fellow,” said Philip, gratefully. “I must go on to ‘The Three Watermen’ at once, and trust to luck to bring me safely out of it again. If you will come on later, and take your lodging there in the ordinary course, I shall be glad; I might want to have such a friend near me. But, should you see me there, don’t recognise me, or take the faintest notice of me, unless I call upon you to do so. Will you undertake to carry out my wishes?” Captain Peter Quist, though evidently much disturbed in mind, nodded slowly, in token that he would do as he was asked; and Philip Chater set out alone for “The Three Watermen.” Guessing that the late Dandy Chater was probably well acquainted with the house and its inmates, Philip, for his own protection, determined to put on a moody sullen demeanour, and to lounge at the bar of the place until he was accosted by some one; he felt that he could take his cue more readily, if he led those who imagined they knew him to speak first. In pursuance of this plan, he roughly pushed open the door with his shoulder, and lounged into the place—looking about him with an air that was half insolent, half quarrelsome. Making his way to the bar, he gave a curt nod to the man behind it, and gruffly ordered some brandy. The man who presided there regarded him with a sort of obsequious leer; and took the opportunity to lean across the bar, and whisper huskily—“All gone upstairs, Mr. Dandy.” “What the devil do I care where they’ve gone?” asked Philip, roughly. “They’ll be expecting you, Mr. Dandy,” ventured the man, after a pause.