“Here is money,” she said; “money that I was to have given him.  Fifty pounds it is, in notes—­take it all.”

“But you?” I hesitated.

“Never mind me.  Take it—­take it all.  What do I want with money if only you kill him?”

I bent and kissed her hand.

“As Heaven is my witness,” I said, “it shall be his life or mine.  The soul of one of us shall never see to-morrow.”

Her hand was as cold as ice, and her pale face never changed.

“Kill him!” she said, simply.

I turned, and climbed the steps.  By this time day had broken, and the east was streaked with angry flushes of crimson.  The wind swept through my dripping clothes and froze my aching limbs to the marrow.  Up the river came floating a heavy pall of fog, out of which the masts showed like grisly skeletons.  The snow-storm had not quite ceased, and a stray flake or two came brushing across my face.  So dawned my Christmas Eve!

As I gained the top, I turned to look down.  She was still standing there, watching me.  Seeing me look, she waved her arms, and I heard her hoarse whisper, “Kill him!  Kill him!  Kill him!”

I left her standing so, and turned away; but in the many ghosts that haunt my solitary days, not the least vivid is the phantom of this white-haired woman on the black and silent river, eternally beckoning, “Kill him!”

I found myself in a yard strewn with timber, spars and refuse, half hidden beneath the snow.  From it a flight of rickety stone steps led to a rotting door, and thence into the street.  Here I stood for a moment, pondering on my next step.  Not a soul was abroad so early; but I must quickly get a change of clothes somewhere; at present I stood in my torn dress trousers and soaked shirt.  I passed up the street, my shoeless feet making the first prints in the newly-fallen snow.  The first?  No; for when I looked more closely I saw other footprints, already half obliterated, leading up the street.  These must be Simon Colliver’s.  I followed them for about a hundred yards past the shuttered windows.

Suddenly they turned into a shop door, and then seemed to leave it again.  The shop was closed, and above it hung three brass balls, each covered now with a snowy cap.  Above, the blinds were drawn down, but on looking again, I saw a chink of light between the shutters.  I knocked.

After a short pause, the door was opened.  A red-eyed, villainous face peered out, and seeing me, grew blank with wonder.

“What do you want?” inquired at length the voice belonging to it.

“To buy a fresh suit of clothes.  See, I have fallen into the river.”

Muttering something beneath his breath, the pawnbroker opened his door, and let me into the shop.