"That seems rather incredible," mused Rosalind.
Her observation of the captive had long ago driven her to the conclusion that he was quite harmless.
"Incredible!" echoed Mr. Davidson. "Everything's incredible here lately. If it's not murder, what is it? Where's my nephew? This man won't tell. He knows; he's simply got to know! He hears I'm away and he comes up here posing as Billy. If it hadn't been for Polly here or Morton he'd have fooled you all."
"But Mr. Morton—"
Rosalind checked herself and glanced at the Englishman. He chewed one end of his mustache, but remained silent. Morton had taken no part in the exposure; on the contrary, he had accepted the impostor.
"Oh, Morton pretended to know him, just so as to be able to watch him better," said Mr. Davidson. "I understand all about that. But what I want to know is, who is this scoundrel? Are you going to tell, sir? Who are you?"
The young man remained steadfastly silent.
"Maybe I can make him talk," said Reggy Williams grimly, advancing his huge bulk toward the captive.
It was Mr. Witherbee who remembered first Reggy's heart! Everybody had forgotten it in the turmoil.
"Never mind, old man," he said anxiously, with a restraining hand on Reggy's arm. "Take a chair. Sit down."