It was a very drenched and disconsolate-looking man that tramped into the slowly awakening streets of London some hours later. He found a modest hotel—a sort of superior public-house, of an old-fashioned type; and, after waiting some considerable time, was able to get something of a meal, and to get to bed. But his last thought, as he undressed, was that this hurried flight, on the spur of the moment, had been a blunder. “Harry’s devotion and my fright have, I fear, carried us both away,” he muttered to himself. “The smuggling out of the dog-cart by a back way; this hurried race to London; above all—the spade, taken, I suspect, from the Hall—and left so near the body; it all points to Dandy Chater. Well—I must get this interview over to-morrow—or rather to-day—and see what further troubles are in store for me. For the moment, I am worn out, and shall do no good by thinking or planning.” He slept soundly, and—a little before noon—presented himself at the office of Mr. Z. Isaacson, in the neighbourhood of Old Broad Street. It was a somewhat pretentious place, consisting, so far as he could see, of but two rooms; the first of which, at least, was very solidly and heavily furnished. But by far the most solid and heavy piece of furniture in the place was the gentleman he imagined to be Mr. Z. Isaacson—a portly individual, with pronounced features, much watch-chain, and some heavy rings on his fat white fingers. Remembering, in time, that he was probably supposed to know this gentleman with some intimacy, Philip nodded carelessly, and threw himself into the chair which the other indicated. “I’m glad you’ve come, my dear boy,” began Mr. Isaacson, in a familiar manner. He spoke with something of a nasal accent, and a little as though his tongue were too large for his mouth. “You know—we like to have things pleasant and square, and _I_ like—as you’ve found before to-day—to do the amiable, if I can. But, you know, dear boy”—he passed his large hand over his shining bald head, and shook that head gravely—“this is rather—well, you know—really——” His voice trailed off, and he pretended to be busy with some papers on his desk. Philip Chater looked at him for a moment, and then broke out impatiently, “What are you talking about? What do you want with me?” “Now, my dear boy,” said Mr. Isaacson, soothingly—“this is not the spirit I like to see—it isn’t really. You and me have had dealings, this year or two, and you’ve paid the little bit of interest I’ve asked, fairly and squarely; likewise, I’ve renewed from time to time—for a little consideration—and all has been square and pleasant. But, when it comes to playing it off on an old friend in this fashion—well, really, you know——”