“I think we shall probably have some news to-night,” replied the second man. “Our people have got hold of an idea that the police have spotted their man, and may get hold of him within the next few hours. I hear that Tokely has the case in hand.” “Ah—smart man, Tokely,” said the other nodding. “I wonder if that swell who was spoken about had anything to do with it?” “I dare say,” replied his friend, coolly. “If so, it’ll make rare good copy—won’t it? Trusting village maiden—young Squire—and all the other details. By Jove—won’t our people lick it up!” Philip Chater, sick at heart, turned away, and tried to busy himself in the paper he had bought. But the more he tried to read, and to fix his mind on the page before him, the more hopeless became the tangle into which the words seemed to form themselves. He thought of himself—a fugitive; of his brother, fished out of the river, and perhaps by this time identified. Philip Chater had but to think, for an instant, of the contents of his own pockets at that moment, to realise the desperate position in which he stood. He had the dead man’s watch and chain—his cheque book and other papers; he had upon him also, a large number of bank-notes, which he knew must have been stolen, and part of which he had paid away to cover up a forgery which he was also supposed to have committed. More than all, he was venturing now into the very heart of the enemy’s country, in the hope to stop a robbery, with which he was also connected—and at the house of the woman he loved. It is small wonder that he saw, in all this, a resistless tide, which must sooner or later sweep him to destruction. Arriving at the small station for which he had taken his ticket, he alighted with the two newspaper men, and saw them get into a vehicle which had evidently been ordered for them. Not wishing to ask any more questions than were absolutely necessary, he watched this carriage, as it drove away, and followed the road it took. Glancing at the watch he carried, by the light of the last lamp he passed, he saw that it was nearly eight o’clock; and he had, so far as he could judge, nearly eleven miles to go before reaching Bamberton. But his purpose was a strong one, and the night was fine; he set out to walk the distance, knowing that he dared not ask for a lift from any passing cart, lest he should be recognised. At one or two points on his journey, where sign-posts were too illegible to be read, or the night too dark to see them clearly, he was compelled to wait—fuming and impatient—until such time as a slow-footed, slow-voiced countryman should come in sight. At such times Philip Chater pulled his hat down as far as possible over his face, and kept in the shadow. But he got through each interview safely, until within a mile or two of the village—when taking a wrong turning and losing his bearings hopelessly, he was obliged to wait again, in the hope of some one passing him.