“Five—shix days—p’raps a week,” said the other. Then, suddenly becoming more sober, at the recollection of what had so recently happened, the little man waved his arms wildly, and exclaimed, in his thin piping voice—“But that’s nothing—nothing ’t all. Dandy Chater came to meeting; took bank-notes—his own—yours, too——” “What the devil are you talking about?” cried Ogledon, almost as wildly as the other. “What meeting—what notes?” “Tuesday. The boys divided up—share and share alike—Dandy took yours and his own. And to-night—ugh!—he was in that damned garden, and took the necklace. He takes everything.” Ogledon wiped his face, and even his hands, and poured out more brandy. Drinking it, he looked over the top of the glass at Cripps; set the glass down, and stood nervously beating his hands together, and biting his lips. “Cripps,” he said at last, in a whisper—“this thing has got the better of me. As sure as Heaven, Dandy Chater is—is dead.” The Doctor saw something in Ogledon’s eyes which completely sobered him; he sank down helplessly in a chair. “You don’t mean—” he began. Ogledon nodded. “We—we had a row. We’ve had—had rows before. Besides—the fool was in my way—in my way everywhere. I’d got out of him all I wanted. I followed him down to the river, a week ago, and struck him down there—from behind. I know he was dead; I felt for his heart. Then I made a bolt for it; got to Paris, so as to be out of the way—and came back here only to-day. I’ve watched the papers, for a week; I came back, expecting to hear that the body had been found, and that this house was in mourning. Cripps—as Heaven’s above us, there is some devilish Thing going about—from the grave—from anywhere you will—in the likeness of this man we both know to be dead.” The little Doctor was trembling from head to foot; not sober enough yet to understand the magnitude of the thing, and having, after that lapse of twenty-eight years, but a dim and fleeting recollection of the birth at Chater Hall. Indeed, then, as now, he had been always in so hazy a condition, that it is doubtful if he remembered the real circumstances. “It has been seen at this meeting; it came here; it dogged us to-night. I’m—I’m choking, Cripps; I must have one of these windows open.” He crossed the room hurriedly, and flung back a heavy curtain, which hung across the long French window which opened on to the terrace. But, the next moment, he started back with a scream, and covered his face with his hands; for there, in the clear cold light of the moon, stood the living image of Dandy Chater, looking calmly at him. CHAPTER XIII INSPECTOR TOKELY IS EMPHATIC