The man withdrew, leaving Philip Chater in an uneasy frame of mind. He saw at once that, great as this lad’s devotion might be to Dandy Chater, he had already, in a moment of passion, defied his master. He was scarcely more than a boy—and in that boy’s hands hung the life of Philip Chater. That he should have gone out, in this fashion, without a word, was a circumstance suspicious enough at any time; that he should have done so now, was alarming in the extreme to the man who dreaded every moment to hear unaccustomed sounds in the house, which should denote that the secret of the wood was a secret no longer, and that men had come to take him. “I can’t stay here; I shall go mad, if I do,” said Philip to himself. “After all, there may be only a few hours of liberty left to me—perhaps only a matter of minutes. Come—what shall I do with the time?” A certain recklessness was upon the man—the recklessness which will make a man laugh sometimes, in the certain approach of death. With that feeling, too, came a softer one; in that hour of difficulty and danger, he turned, as it were instinctively, towards the woman who had kissed him—the woman who had whispered that she loved him. In his bitter loneliness, as has been said, his thoughts had turned to her, more often than was good for his peace of mind; and now a longing, greater than he could master, came upon him, to touch her hand—perhaps, by great good fortune, her lips—once again. “Who knows—it may be for the last time!” he said. “There has not been so much of tenderness or beauty in my life, that I can afford to throw it churlishly aside, when it is given so freely to me. Madge, my sweet girl—this vagabond, thieving, murdering, masquerading lover of yours is coming to see you.” With that lighter, better mood upon him, he sought for the piece of paper, on which the plan had been drawn, and traced the paths by which he should reach the cottage; he found, as he had anticipated, that it was within some two or three hundred yards of his own lodge gates. It was quite dark when he strolled out; but he had the plan very clearly in his mind, and he found his way, without difficulty, to the place he sought. It was a good-sized house, of but two stories, and rambling and old-fashioned; thrusting open a gate, set in the hedge which surrounded it, he walked across trim lawns, in the direction of certain long windows, which lighted a terrace, and behind which the warm glow of lamps and fires was shining. But, before he reached this terrace, he heard an exclamation, and from out the shadow of some trees a figure came swiftly towards him. For a moment, he hesitated, and half drew back; but the figure came nearer, and he saw that it was Madge Barnshaw. In his great relief, and in his gladness, at that time, to see her friendly face, and her eyes giving him welcome, he took her silently in his arms, and kissed her. “Dear Dandy,” she said—and her voice was very low and soft—“how I have longed to see you!”