“At all events,” said Sir Henry, “we will have an eye on him, he won’t escape us. But his mentioning the Shalcrosses is a settler. We have the thing by the end now. I congratulate you, dear Mr. Woodburn; all will soon be cleared up, depend upon it.” “God grant it,” said Mr. Woodburn; and all present. “And when are you off, Boddily?” asked Sir Henry; but receiving no answer he looked round, and saw that Boddily had disappeared. “Where’s Boddily?” he asked. “Here!” answered a dirty, grimy, limping, shabby fellow, coming down the back stairs. All looked in astonishment: could that be Boddily? It was a regular lounging-looking tramp, in a ragged old surtout, and ragged drab trousers, worn off very much behind at the heel. A pair of very slip-shod shoes on, and great holes, or potatoes, according to Midland county phrase, in his stocking heels. A very old, battered hat on his head, and a canvas wallet on his back, tied up like a sack at the top, and suspended over his shoulders by very old cracked straps. “Can your worships bestow your charity on a poor fellow who has not tasted bit nor sup these three days?” There was one general burst of laughter, for Tom had so completely metamorphosed himself that nobody knew him till he made this petition. Then, changing his tone, he said, “Gentlemen, now I am off—in my wallet I carry a suit of my ordinary clothes. You will hear from me every few days, and may God prosper us, for I mean to go to John o’ Groat’s or the Land’s End, but I’ll have that Scammel.” With that Tom made a grave bow, put on his hat, and with a shuffling, limping gait, left the house by the front door, and with a dirty, ugly stick, very much in keeping with his whole appearance, he went slowly up the road till he was out of sight. “That is a most extraordinary fellow,” said Sir Henry. “I would bet anything on his success; so now we must wait in patience for news from him.” With that he shook hands heartily all round, mounted his horse, and rode home. CHAPTER IV. SCAMMEL’S DEATH.