We stood hand locked in hand at parting. "Where are you staying?" I whispered. "Not far off. I've a lodging in the neighbourhood--one room." "Fare you well, then, until to-morrow evening." "Au revoir, Charley." CHAPTER II. TOM HERIOT. I found my way straight enough the next night to the little green with its trees and shrubs. Tom was there, and was humming one of our boyhood's songs taught us by Leah: "Young Henry was as brave a youth As ever graced a martial story; And Jane was fair as lovely truth: She sighed for love, and he for glory. "To her his faith he meant to plight, And told her many a gallant story: But war, their honest joys to blight, Called him away from love to glory. "Young Henry met the foe with pride; Jane followed--fought--ah! hapless story! In man's attire, by Henry's side, She died for love, and he for glory." He was still dressed as a sailor, but the pilot-coat was buttoned up high and tight about his throat, and the round glazed hat was worn upon the front of his head instead of the back of it. "I thought you meant to change these things, Tom," I said as we sat down. "All in good time," he answered; "don't quite know yet what costume to adopt. Could one become a negro-melody man, think you, Charley--or a Red Indian juggler with balls and sword-swallowing?" How light he seemed! how supremely indifferent! Was it real or only assumed? Then he turned suddenly upon me: "I say, what are you in black for, Charley? For my sins?" "For Mr. Brightman." "Mr. Brightman!" he repeated, his tone changing to one of concern. "Is he dead?" "He died the last week in February. Some weeks ago now. Died quite suddenly." "Well, well, well!" softly breathed Tom Heriot. "I am very sorry. I did not know it. But how am I likely to know anything of what the past months have brought forth?" It would serve no purpose to relate the interview of that night in detail. We spent it partly in quarrelling. That is, in differences of opinion. It was impossible to convince Tom of his danger. I told him about the Sunday incident, when Detective Arkwright passed the door of Serjeant Stillingfar, and my momentary fear that he might be looking after Tom. He only laughed. "Good old Uncle Stillingfar!" cried he; "give my love to him." And all his conversation was carried on in the same light strain. "But you must leave Lambeth," I urged. "You said you would do so." "I said I might. I will, if I see just cause for doing so. Plenty of time yet. I am not _sure_, you know, Charles, that Wren would know me." "The very fact of your having called yourself 'Strange' ought to take you away from here." "Well, I suppose that was a bit of a mistake," he acknowledged. "But look here, brother mine, your own fears mislead you. Until it is known that I have made my way home no one will be likely to look after me. Believing me to be at the antipodes, they won't search London for me."