How piteously she said it—and what depth of pleading there was in her eyes! She seemed little more than a girl, and the man, looking at her, felt a certain hot indignation growing in him against the real Dandy Chater, who could have brought tears to eyes which must once have been so innocent. It was not his purpose, however, to undeceive her; he had too much at stake for that; so he felt his way cautiously. “I shan’t forget; you need not fear. I will meet you, as I have promised,” he replied slowly. “You are very good to me, Dandy,” said the girl, gratefully. “And you are going to take me to London—aren’t you?” This had evidently been promised by the real Dandy Chater, and Philip Crowdy felt that he must deal delicately with the matter, as he had still much to learn. Accordingly, pitiful though the thing was, he took it half laughingly. “To London? But what am I to do with you there. Where shall we go?” She laughed, to please his humour. “Why—Dandy dear—how soon you forget! Didn’t you promise that I should go with you to the old place—there, I can see you’ve forgotten all about it already—the old place at Woolwich—the Three Watermen—near the river; didn’t you say we might wait there until to-morrow? And then——Oh, Dandy, the thought of it takes away my breath, and makes my heart beat with joy and gratitude—and then—we are to be married!” “There is some desperate game afoot here,” thought Philip Crowdy to himself, as he stood in the dark road, looking at the eager face of the girl. “Why—in Heaven’s name, does he want to meet her in a wood, if he’s going to take her to London? I must follow this up, if possible, at any cost.” Aloud he said, “Of course—how stupid of me; I’d quite forgotten. And to-morrow Dandy Chater, Esq., and——” “Patience Miller,” broke in the girl, quickly—“will be man and wife—and Patience will be the happiest girl in England!” “Got her name, by George!” muttered the man to himself. “Poor girl—I hope to goodness the man is dealing fairly with her.” Turning to the girl again, he said carelessly—“Let me see, what time did I say we were to meet in the wood?” “At half-past seven,” replied the girl. “You said we should have time to walk across the fields, from there to the station, to catch the last train, without any one seeing us—don’t you remember?” “Yes—yes, I remember,” replied the man. “I shan’t be late; till then—good-bye!” He had turned away, and had gone some few paces down the road towards the village, when the girl called piteously after him. “Dandy—you’re not going like that? Won’t you—won’t you kiss me?” The man retraced his steps slowly. As, after a moment’s hesitation, he put an arm carelessly round her shoulders, and bent his face towards hers, he looked fully and strongly into her eyes; but there was no change in her expression—no faintest start of suspicion or doubt.