ut in a fur coat an' Trilby 'at. But it's Gavel,
an' 'e's walkin' straight into Glasson's arms. Stand by to do a bolt
soon as 'e turns the corner."

"But I don't see what he has to do with--with--" Arthur Miles hesitated
before the terrible name.

"Glasson? Oh, nothin'; on'y ten to one Gavel's met with the Mortimers,
an', Glasson bein' on the track already--W'y, what elst is the man 'ere
for?"

"He shan't take me," said the boy after a pause, and in a strained low
voice which, nevertheless, had no tremor in it. "Not if I throw myself
off the ladder."

"You stop that talk, please," threatened Tilda. "It's wicked; an'
besides, they 'aven't caught us yet. Do what I tell yer, an' stand by
to bolt."

She crept to the other door, which commanded the canal front, unbarred
it softly, and opened the upper hatch a few inches. Through this
aperture, by standing on tip-toe, she could watch the meeting of the two
men.

"When I call, run for yer life."

But a minute--two minutes--passed, and the command did not come.
Arthur Miles, posted by the bolt-hole, held his breath at the sound of
voices without, by the waterside. The tones of one he recognised with a
shiver. They were raised, and although he could not catch the words,
apparently in altercation. Forgetting orders, he tip-toed across to
Tilda's elbow.

Mr. James Gavel, proprietor of Imperial Steam Roundabouts--as well as of
half a dozen side-shows, including a Fat Lady and a Try-your-Strength
machine--was a small man with a purplish nose and a temper kept
irritable by alcohol; and to-day the Fates had conspired to rub that
temper on the raw. He swore aloud, and partly believed, that ever since
coming to Henley-in-Arden he was bewitched.

He had come at the instance, and upon the guarantee, of Sir Elphinstone
Breward, Baronet, C.B., K.C.V.O., a local landowner, who, happening to
visit Warwick on County Council business, which in its turn happened to
coincide with a fair day, had been greatly struck by the title
"Imperial" painted over Mr. Gavel's show, and with soldierly promptness
had engaged the whole outfit--Roundabouts, Fat Lady and all--for his
forthcoming Primrose Fete.

If beside his addiction to alcohol Mr. Gavel had a weakness, it was the
equally British one of worshipping a title. Flattered by the honest
baronet's invitation, he had met it almost more than half-way; and had
dispatched six of his shabbiest horses to Birmingham to be repainted