"Only I've got that fellow in my pocket, I'd say he was bent on mischief; but he's in my pocket; and suppose he did, no great matter, after all--only dying. I'm not gathering up my strength; no--I shall never be the same man again--and life so insipid--and that poor old doll up stairs. So many things going on under the stars, all ending _so_!" Yes--so many things. There was Cleve, chief mourner to-day, chatting now wonderfully gaily, with a troubled heart, and a kind of growing terror, to that foolish victim who no more suspected him than he did the resurrection of his uncle Arthur, smoking his chibouque only a mile away. There, too, far away, is a pale, beautiful young mother, sitting on the bed-side of her sleeping boy, weeping silently, as she looks on his happy face, and--_thinks_. Mr. Dingwell arrayed in travelling costume, suddenly appeared before Lord Verney again. "I'm not going to plague you--only this. I've an idea I shall lose my life if I don't go to London to-night, and I must catch the mail train. Tell your people to put the horses to your brougham, and drop me at Llwynan." Lord Verney chose to let his brother judge for himself in this matter, being only too glad to get rid of him. Shrieking through tunnels, thundering through lonely valleys, gliding over wide, misty plains, spread abroad like lakes, the mail train bore Arthur Verney, and also--each unconscious of the other's vicinity--Mr. Jos. Larkin toward London. Mr. Larkin had planned a checkmate in two moves. He had been brooding over it in his mufflers, sometimes with his eyes shut, sometimes with his eyes open--all night, in the corner of his carriage. When he stepped out in the morning, with his despatch-box in his hand, whom should he meet in the cold gray light upon the platform, full front, but Mr. Dingwell. He was awfully startled. Dingwell had seen him, too; Larkin had felt, as it were, his quick glance touch him, and he was sure that Dingwell had observed his momentary but significant change of countenance. He, therefore, walked up to him, touched him on the arm, and said, with a smile-- "I thought, sir, I recognized you. I trust you have an attendant? Can I do anything for you? Cold, this morning. Hadn't you better draw your muffler up a little about your face?" There was a significance about this last suggestion which Mr. Dingwell could not mistake, and he complied. "Running down again to Malory in a few days, I suppose?" "Yes," said Dingwell. "So shall I, and if quite convenient to you, I should wish, sir, to talk that little matter over much more carefully, and--can I call a cab for you? I should look in upon you to-day only I must be at Brighton, not to return till to-morrow, and very busy then, too." They parted. Dingwell did not like it. "He's at mischief. I've thought of _every_ thing, and I can't see _any_ thing that would answer _his_ game. I don't like his face."