street, and went back the way he came.

It was now for the first time that a strange notion illumined Andrew's
brain. It bewildered him, and left him in darkness the next moment.
But his blood was running hot now, and his eyes were glassy.

They turned down Arundel Street.

It was getting dark. There were not a dozen people in the narrow
thoroughfare.

His former thought leapt back into Andrew's mind--not a fancy now, but
a fact. The stranger was following someone too.

For what purpose? His own?

Andrew did not put the question to himself.

There were not twenty yards between the three of them.

What Riach saw in front was a short stout man proceeding cheerfully
down the street. He delayed in a doorway to light a cigar, and the
stranger stopped as if turned to stone.

Andrew stopped too.

They were like the wheels of a watch. The first wheel moved on, and
set the others going again.

For a hundred yards or more they walked in procession in a westerly
direction without meeting a human being. At last the first of the trio
half turned on his heel and leant over the Embankment.

Riach drew back into the shade, just before the stranger took a
lightning glance behind him.

The young man saw his face now. It was never fuller of noble purpose;
yet why did Andrew cry out?

The next moment the stranger had darted forward, slipped his arms round
the little man's legs, and toppled him into the river.

There was a splash but no shriek.

Andrew bounded forward, but the stranger held him by one hand. His
clear blue eyes looked down a little wistfully upon the young
Scotchman, who never felt the fascination of a master-mind more than at
that moment. As if feeling his power, the elder man relaxed his hold
and pointed to the spot where his victim had disappeared.

"He was a good man," he said, more to himself than to Andrew, "and the
world has lost a great philanthropist; but he is better as he is."

Then he lifted a paving-stone, and peered long and earnestly into the
waters.

The short stout man, however, did not rise again.

[1] Some time afterwards Lord Rosebery convulsed an audience by a story
about a friend of his who complained that you get "no forrarder" on
claret. Andrew was that friend.

[2] He had fine ideas, but no money to work them out. One was to start
a serious "Spectator," on the lines of the present one, but not so
flippant and frivolous.

CHAPTER III

Lost in rever