For quite a long time, Philip Chater stood, staring helplessly in the direction in which the girl had disappeared. All around him was the silence of the wood, broken only by the call of some night-bird, or by the whisper and rustle of the branches, stirred by a rising wind. So still was it all, that he almost shrieked aloud when a hand was laid softly on his arm. It was Harry—white-faced, and shaking as though with an ague. He, too, gazed in the direction in which Philip’s eyes were turned, and spoke in a frightened whisper. “Master Dandy—did she—did she see it?” The question roused Philip, and put the whole horrible thing more clearly before him than it had appeared even in his imagination. He looked round at the lad, and spoke aloud, and in a tone of recklessness quite out of keeping with the peril of his situation. But all considerations of prudence had been swept aside, at that time; ringing in his ears still, was the startled scream of the woman he loved—(yes—he could confess it to his own heart, now that he had lost her)—before his eyes again was the sight of her running figure, with its horror-struck eyes hidden from his view. “See it! Of course she saw it. What does it matter? All the world may see it; all the world may know of it. Take your spade away, Harry; you may dig a grave, as deep as the pit of Hell itself, and yet you shall not hide that thing! Why do you tremble? What is there for _you_ to tremble at? Her blood cries out—not against you, but against me; it cries to Heaven—‘See—Dandy Chater killed me—Dandy Chater spilled my blood on God’s fair earth—Dandy Chater——’” His voice had risen to a cry; the other sprang at him, and clapped a shaking hand over his mouth. “Stop—stop, for God’s sake!” he cried, huskily. “Are you mad, Master Dandy—are you mad? I tell you it can be hidden; no man knows of it but myself, and Miss Barnshaw will say nothing.” “I tell you it shall not be hidden,” cried Philip, impatiently. “Why—if any one found you here, digging a grave for it—don’t you understand that suspicion would fall upon you?” “I don’t care about that, Master Dandy,” he cried. “Better me than you. Let them think what they will, Master Dandy; only get you gone, before the hue and cry is raised.” “No—I shall not go,” replied Philip, speaking quite calmly, and with a certain hopeless note in his voice which was more impressive than any other utterance could have been. “My dear boy—you can’t understand that it doesn’t matter one little bit—now. It has been a blunder and a muddle, from first to last; Fate has proved too strong for me—I’ll struggle against it no longer.” “But, Master Dandy,” urged the eager voice—“won’t you let me hide it—at least, for the moment? It will give you time to get away—time to hide.”