great wash from the river swamped up all about him, so that he turned, and ran back hurriedly a few paces, out of the way of it.

When he looked again at the spot where he had stood, the body was gone. Some of the timbers, too, among which it had lain, were washing about, and crashing together, at some little distance from the shore. The man ran to the very edge of the water, and strained his eyes eagerly, in search for something else beside timbers; but the darkness was too profound for him to see anything clearly; and, although he ran along the muddy bank—first to right, and then to left—he could discover nothing. He stood alone, in that desolate place, and the dead man was undoubtedly being hurried, with the timbers among which he had fallen, down the river towards the sea.

Presently, the man seemed to realise the full significance of what had happened; touched the papers in his pocket; and stood staring thoughtfully at the ground for a long time.

“There is some strange fate in this,” he muttered to himself. “To-night, by accident, I took the place of the real Dandy Chater for a few hours; now I’ll take his place—not by accident, but by design. Dandy Chater is dead and gone! Yes—Dandy Chater is dead—but long live Dandy Chater!”

With these words, the man turned quickly, hurried up the alley way into the street, and set off as rapidly as possible in the direction of London.

It was so late, that all public vehicles had ceased running, and the railway station was closed. He did not care to excite attention, by chartering a cab to take him to London, and he stood for some time in one of the main streets—now almost deserted—wondering what he should do. The appearance of a small coffee-house, on the other side of the street, with the announcement swinging outside that beds were to be let there, attracted his attention; the proprietor of it had already closed one half of the double doors, and was standing outside, leaning against the side of the window, and contemplating the street, before retiring from the public eye for the day. Philip Crowdy, after a moment’s hesitation, crossed the street, and accosted the man.

“Can I have a bed here?” he asked.

The man looked him up and down for a moment in silence; removed the pipe he was smoking from his lips—blew a long stream of smoke into the air; and finally ejaculated—“’Ave yer pick of the w’ole bloomin’ lot, if yer like. It’s my private opinion that there ain’t anybody a sleepin’ in beds these times, ’cept me, an’ the 

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