A young man—at whom it was unnecessary to cast a second glance, to assure him that this was Madge’s brother—had entered the room; had stopped, on seeing Philip; and now came hesitatingly forward. He was younger than Philip—scarcely more, from his appearance, than a year or two the senior of his sister. He waved aside the man Isaacson, and said, in a low voice, to Philip— “I say, old fellow—I’d like to have a word with you.” Then, as Philip rose, and walked with him towards a window, he added, in a low voice—“Look here, Dandy—I want to do the square thing; and I swear to you that, if I’d have known that this affair had anything to do with you, I should never have pressed my enquiries. But, you see, the cheque was made out to the order of that old shark at the desk there, and I never guessed—now, look here—you’ve got into a hole, old boy—but I’d like to pull you out of it, if I can. What can we do? You see, I’ve got to think, not only of you, but of Madge; it’ll be such an awful blow to her.” Philip wondered whether anything could be a greater blow to her than the sight on which her eyes had rested in the wood. But he said nothing. His one desire, at the moment, was to get clear away; and to drop, as completely as possible, out of the life in which he had usurped a place. There was, too, a wholly foolish and ridiculous idea in his head, that he would not like this girl, who had kissed his lips, and had once believed in him—(or in his dead counterpart)—to have any worse opinion than she at that time cherished. As by an inspiration, he remembered that the notes he had received on the night of the meeting at “The Three Watermen” were still in his pocket. He determined to use them. He explained briefly to Arthur—even while he expressed his regret—that he had unexpectedly received a considerable sum of money—the proceeds from some speculations, the shares in which had long lain useless. He suggested that it might be possible to bribe that worthy Hebrew at the desk. Mr. Isaacson was not at first to be persuaded; but the cheque being in his hands—marked “Refer to drawer”—he at last agreed to sell it, for the sum of three thousand pounds. Arthur Barnshaw struck a match—set fire to the tell-tale paper—and allowed it to burn down to his fingers. “That matter is done with,” he said, quietly. In the street, however, a change came over him; he stood, for a moment, looking at Philip, and then thrust his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think I should care to shake hands—not yet,” he said. “I want to get over this.” He turned, and walked away. At the same moment, a newsboy—hurrying past—shouted at the full pitch of his lungs—“’Orrible murder in Essex! Bank robbery in Sheffield! Weener!” Philip Chater staggered, and then walked on, in a dazed condition. For he knew that he stood—wholly, in the one case—partly, in the other—responsible for both. CHAPTER X A BODY FROM THE RIVER