"One thing I am surprised at," I said as I rose to leave: "that if he is here, he should not have let me know it. What can he be doing for money? An escaped convict is not likely to have much of that about him." Serjeant Stillingfar shook his head. "There are points about the affair that I cannot fathom, Charles. Talking of money--you are well-off now, but if more than you can spare should be needed to get Tom Heriot away, apply to me." "Thank you, uncle; but I don't think it will be needed. Where would you recommend him to escape to?" "Find him first," was the Serjeant's answer. He accompanied me himself to the front door. As we stood, speaking a last word, a middle-aged man, with keen eyes and spare frame, dressed as a workman, came up with a brisk step. Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar met the smile on the man's face as he glanced up in passing. "Arkwright!" he exclaimed. "I hardly knew you. Some sharp case in hand, I conclude?" "Just so, Serjeant; but I hope to bring it to earth before the day's over. You know----" Then the man glanced at me and came to a pause. "However, I mustn't talk about it now, so good-afternoon, Serjeant." And thus speaking, he walked briskly onwards. "I wonder what he has in hand? I think he would have told me, Charles, but for your being present," cried my uncle, looking after him. "A keen man is Arkwright." "_Arkwright!_" I echoed, the name now impressing itself upon me. "Surely not Arkwright the famous detective!" "Yes, it is. And he has evidently got himself up as a workman to further some case that he has in hand. He knew you, Charles; depend upon that; though you did not know him." A fear, perhaps a foolish one, fell upon me. "Uncle Stillingfar," I breathed, "can his case be _Tom's_? Think you it is he who is being run to earth?" "No, no. That is not likely," he answered, after a moment's consideration. "Anyway, you must use every exertion to find him, for his stay in London is full of danger." It will readily be believed that this incident had not added to my peace of mind. One more visit I decided to pay to the old ground in Lambeth, and after that--why, in truth, whether to turn east, west, north or south, I knew no more than the dead. Monday was bright and frosty; Monday evening clear, cold and starlight. The gaslights flared away in the streets and shops; the roads were lined with wayfarers. Sauntering down the narrow pavement on the opposite side of the way, in the purposeless manner that a hopeless man favours, I approached the book-stall. A sailor was standing before it, his head bent over the volumes. Every pulse within me went up to fever heat: for there was that in him that reminded me of Tom Heriot. I crossed quietly to the stall, stood side by side with him, and took up a handful of penny dreadfuls. Yes, it was he--Tom Heriot. "Tom," I cried softly. "Tom!" I felt the start he gave. But he did not move hand or foot; only his eyes turned to scan me.