More than a column was devoted to it—with interviews with wholly uninteresting people, of whom he had never heard, nor, indeed, any one else—giving their several versions of the matter; how this one had heard a scream—and another a dog bark—and how a third had an aunt, who had dreamed of a man with a red mark on his forehead, about a week before the occurrence. But there was absolutely nothing in any report which connected him with the affair—at least, by name. It was stated that the police had several clues; but that was to be expected. Only, at the end of the column, was a suggestion that the police had issued a warrant against a man well known in the neighbourhood, who had disappeared some two days before. That was from a telegram dated that afternoon—Friday. Philip Chater sat down, on a seat in the station, and pondered the matter again. “The warrant is for me—that’s certain. But there is no mention of my name—so that that idea about the Captain goes to the winds. Now—what on earth can have startled him in that fashion?” Turning the paper over in his hands, he came upon a “Stop-Press” telegram, in the small space reserved for such things, and read it. “The body of an unknown man—well dressed—was taken from the river below Woolwich this afternoon. Nothing in pockets to lead to identification.” Once again, Philip Chater seemed to stand at the corner of the dark street in Woolwich; once again, he seemed to see the ghastly face of the startled Captain, as he backed away. Philip Chater folded the paper rapidly, and got up, with an excited face. “By all that’s wonderful!—he’s found the real Dandy Chater!” he muttered. That thought, and all that it might involve for him and so many others, set him walking at a rapid pace, thinking hard as he went, and without paying much attention as to the direction he took. But his thoughts, coming, by a natural transition, to the girl who would be most affected by any news of Dandy Chater, leapt from thence to the quiet garden, wherein he had walked and talked with her. Then in a flash, his mind went back, over the discovery of the road which led him to the cottage, to the plan on the scrap of paper—and to the reason for that plan. “‘Friday night—as soon after ten o’clock as possible. Only women to deal with!’ Great Heavens!” he exclaimed—“and this is Friday night!” He hailed a hansom, and shouted to the man to drive to Liverpool Street Station. Arriving there in hot haste, he found that he could catch an express, which would land him at a small town a few miles from the station at which he had before alighted for Bamberton. Taking his seat in this, a few moments before its departure, he found himself, somewhat to his consternation, in the company of a couple of men who were discussing the murder in the wood—evidently newspaper men, judging by what they said. “Yes,” said the first—“I’m going down, so as to be on the spot if there’s anything fresh. In any case, I must wire up about half a column.”