happening to glance towards the _Success to Commerce_,
moored under the bank a bare twenty yards away, she halted, and with a
gasp shrank close into the shadow.

"Collar 'Dolph! Grip old on 'im for the Lord's sake!" she whispered,
and clutched Arthur Miles by the arm.

On the bank beside the boat stood a man.

"But what's the matter?" the boy demanded.

"'Ush! Oh, 'ush an' lie close! It's Glasson!"

CHAPTER XIII.

ADVENTURE OF THE FURRED COLLAR.

"'_Do you know me, my lord?'
'Excellent well; you are a fishmonger._'"--HAMLET.

He stood on the edge of the wharf--a black figure in an Inverness cape--
with his back towards the angle of the store where the children hid.
There was no mistaking him. For two nights he had haunted Tilda's
dreams; and she could have picked him out, even in the twilight, from
among a thousand.

She gave another gasp, and with that her presence of mind returned.
He had not seen them; he was watching the barge. The angle of the store
would still hide them if they tip-toed to the wharf gate. But they must
be noiseless as mice; they must reach the road, and then--

She caught up 'Dolph by the scruff of his neck, tucked him under her
arm, and whispered to Arthur Miles to steal after her. But before she
had taken three paces another fright brought her heart into her mouth.

Footsteps were coming down the road. They could not belong to the
wagoner's son. He would be bringing his horse and cart. The footsteps
were light, too--light and hurried, and not to be associated with
hobnailed boots.

Almost desperate at this cutting off of retreat, Tilda pulled Arthur
Miles towards a wooden stairway, unrailed, painted over with Stockholm
tar, built against the outside of the store, and leading to its upper
chamber.

"Up! and quick!" she commanded, pushing him before her. She followed
panting, leaning against the wall for support, for 'Dolph was no light
burden, and his weight taxed her hurt leg painfully.

The door of the loft stood ajar. She staggered in after the boy,
dropped the dog, and closed all but a chink, at which she posted
herself, drawing quick breaths.

In the darkness behind her Arthur Miles listened. The footsteps drew
nearer, paused, and after a moment were audible again in the yard below.

"Good Lord--it's Gavel!"

"Eh?" The boy drew closer to her shoulder.

"It's Gavel, come in a sweat for 'is 'orses. I didn' reckernise 'im for
the moment--dressed o