I picked up the keys, and looked at them; I was thinking deeply. For now it seemed to me that I had to face a new problem: the problem of what this man Jervis Fanshawe would do. That he would not give himself up for the crime I was certain; but I wanted to understand whether he had determined, in the event of discovery, to shift the blame on the boy Arnold Millard, or on myself. I had suffered once for this man, twenty years before--had been drawn on to murder, practically at his bidding; I did not mean to play the scapegoat again. In the case of the boy it had been different; while I had believed him guilty I had been willing enough, out of that old romantic feeling, to take the burden on my own shoulders. But not for Jervis Fanshawe. "What are you going to do now?" I asked for the second time. "What plans have you in your mind?" He looked at me again, with that cunning expression on his face I had seen before. "There is a vessel to sail, on which Murray Olivant took passages for himself and for you," he said in a whisper. "What if I took his place, Charlie--and you came with me?" "Too late," I said--"even if you had the tickets." Still keeping his eyes fixed upon my face, he dived into one of his pockets, and brought out an envelope; opened it, and pulled out the tickets. I started, and stared at him, and made a movement to take them from him; but he closed the envelope quickly, and thrust it back into his pocket. "Ah!--you didn't know that, did you?" he said. "I stole them from you while you slept; I saw my chance there. It only occurred to me, after I had seen you show them to Dawkins, that I might slip away like that, and never be heard of again; I might drop off at some foreign port, and be lost." "You're too late," I reminded him, with a laugh. "The _Eaglet_ sailed this morning." "You're wrong," he exclaimed, dragging the envelope out again. "Either you made a mistake in the date, or the clerk did; the _Eaglet_ sails to-morrow morning." "Are you sure?" I asked in amazement. For answer he carefully pulled the tickets out, and, keeping a grip on them, let me read the date. Sure enough some one had blundered, for the date was that of the following day. "Now, Charlie," he whispered, laying an impressive hand on my arm--"the way is clear. Come with me, Charlie--Tinman, the servant, travelling with Murray Olivant. Murray Olivant is expected on board, and his passage is taken; Tinman, his servant, goes with him. As for this thing that lies here"--he jerked his head to indicate the dead man--"who is ever to say that this is Murray Olivant. A chance, Charlie; but all the world is made up of chances, isn't it? Come, Charlie--the road lies clear before us." "No," I said--"I have other work to do. If you can escape, do so by all means; I will not leave England."