Not that I feared for myself; but that I thought I knew enough of the boy to know that, if another were threatened with the penalty of his crime, he would not hesitate to step forward and tell the truth. And in that case all that I had striven so hard to do would be lost, and the boy's fate would be that of a certain poor Charlie Avaline, long since forgotten. I hurried to Barbara's lodging, only to find, as I had anticipated, that she and the girl had gone. From there I went straight to the railway station, and took train for Hammerstone Market--still with that feeling in my mind that I must know, before everything else, what the boy was going to do. In the train I remembered that the vessel on which Murray Olivant was supposed to sail with me started that morning; I wondered what was going to happen in that direction, or whether it was already known that we had not sailed at all. The thought of that sent my hand to my pocket in search of the tickets; I found that they were gone. I searched every pocket wildly, striving as I did so to remember exactly when I had had them last, and under what circumstances. I remembered distinctly taking them from the pocket of the dead man and putting them into my own; knew--or thought I knew--that I had had them at the time when Dawkins doubted my statement about Olivant. But had I produced them then for his inspection, or had I merely told him that I had them? I could not be sure of that; I went over and over the conversation of the previous night, only to find myself more and more muddled and vague about it. One dreadful thought came to me: had I by any chance dropped them in that room in Lincoln's Inn Fields where Murray Olivant lay murdered? I was making my way out of the station, when I felt a quick touch on my arm; I looked round sharply, and saw young Arnold Millard beside me. I suppose my face must have shown in a moment the fear that was in my heart for him, and for his safety; but there was a fine assumption of astonishment in his tones when he spoke to me. "Why, Tinman, what's the matter with you?" he demanded. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost. What's wrong?" "What should be wrong, sir?" I asked, as we walked together out of the station. "Have you any news of your brother--of Mr. Olivant?" I looked at him fully, and wondered that his eyes did not shrink from mine. "The best of news," he exclaimed. "He's shown the white feather, Tinman; he's made up his mind to leave the country. I'm not sorry that he's slipped through my fingers; he wasn't worth killing, was he?" "No; God knows he wasn't worth killing," I said passionately. "His flat is shut up, and I'm told he sails this morning; the people in the house even knew the name of the vessel--the _Eaglet_. I wouldn't believe it at first, but the housekeeper opened the doors for me, and let me go all over the rooms. Everything was packed up or covered up; he's going to be away a long time, I should think."