Another long pause, while the horse paced slowly along the road, and the hearts of both men beat faster than ordinary. At last, the servant spoke—still without looking at his master. He spoke doggedly, and as though repeating something he had trained himself, with difficulty, to say. “There’s nothing I’m hiding, Master Dandy,” he said, slowly and distinctly—“and nothing has happened—since you went away.” It was evident that nothing was to be got out of him; Philip touched the horse smartly with the whip, causing it to break into its former rapid pace, and said quietly, with something of reproach in his tone—“You _are_ hiding something, Harry. I am sorry; I thought you were my friend.” “God knows I am, Master Dandy!” broke from the other, almost with a groan. But he said nothing more, and they swept up the long drive to Chater Hall in silence. Now, the ill-luck which seemed to have begun to pursue Philip Chater, caused time to hang heavily upon his hands that afternoon, and prompted him to stroll down to the Chater Arms. Truth to tell, he had a very strong desire to pay a visit to Madge Barnshaw—which would have been easy, now that the plan on the scrap of paper was in his hands. But he hesitated, for more reasons than one. In the first place the natural chivalry of the man rebelled against the thought of taking advantage of the fraud he was compelled to practice upon an innocent woman. Some feeling, stronger than mere interest in her, had begun to stir in his breast, from the time when she had placed her hand upon his arm, in the church, until she had blushingly kissed his lips, and fled from him. For this man, so strangely made in the likeness of the dead, and so strangely placed, in the masquerading game he was forced to play, was desperately and bitterly lonely. Surrounded by unknown dangers—necessarily suspicious of every one with whom he came in contact—resenting, as an honest man, the lie he was obliged to live—he craved most earnestly for some sympathy and tenderness. All unconsciously, this woman had given them both to him; and, in the midst even of his remorse that he should be playing so false a game with her, was the natural selfish feeling of his manhood, which cried out—“Let her love me; she will never understand; I am as good, or better, than the man to whom she thinks she is giving her caresses. Born of the same mother, in the same hour, and fashioned so strangely alike—he, the younger, has had all the luxury and beauty of life hitherto; I—the elder—all its hardships and privations. Surely it is my turn—rightfully—now.” Nevertheless, he thrust that thought from him, and resolved to see no more of her than was consistent with the keeping up of the fictitious character he had assumed. And thus it was that, in desperation, and haunted by troublesome thoughts, he betook himself to the Chater Arms.