The Doctor laughed.
“It is indeed somewhat disturbing,” he said, “to come home to a peaceful house and find a wounded prisoner of war, a young heroine whose praises every one is singing and a frantic Frenchwoman whom excitement seems to have robbed of all her English. But come downstairs, Stephen, and I will give you the whole story as well as I have managed to learn it from a dozen different people who all sought to tell me at once. The one who knows the most is up yonder in your guest room and will be unable to state his version of the matter for some time to come.”
In Stephen’s study, where Mother Jeanne, who had at last collected her wits a little, brought them breakfast, the Doctor related the story of the escape of Andrew Shadwell and the night’s adventures of Clotilde.
“She knew,” commented Stephen, when he heard of her toiling so late in the empty cottage; “she knew well indeed that, had I been here, I would never have permitted such a thing. She was making the most of my absence, the minx!”
When he heard how the English soldiers had marched past Hopewell unheard and unseen in the storm, and had brought the troublesome Tories safely away, he chuckled aloud and slapped his knee.
“We are well rid of Andrew Shadwell, the slippery rogue,” he said, “and this was, after all, the best way out of the situation. I wish the English joy of him. But when I overtook the troops from Boston this morning, I found them a disappointed set who had just learned that they had arrived a few hours too late. Their leader had naught to do but to march his men back again with as good a grace as he could, for the ship that brought the English troops was already far out to sea.”
When the Doctor reached that part of the tale dealing with the young Captain’s return to see that Clotilde was safe, he warmed to his task of storyteller.
“It was the deed of a gallant fellow,” he concluded, “and I would the boy were not so sorely hurt. I find I have a friendly feeling for him, not only on account of his courage but because of his resemblance to you. Even as he lies there, white and unconscious, he has a familiar look that strikes me as uncanny. Just go and see for yourself, if you do not believe me.”
Stephen mounted the stairs once more and stepped into the room where the wounded soldier lay. Bidding the Doctor’s servant, who watched beside the bed, to draw aside the curtain, he stood for some time gazing at the white face on the pillow. Then he turned, without a word, and went back to his waiting friend.
“I will show you why his face is so familiar,” he said.