“She was lying bottom up, sir, on a bit of sandbank, a dozen miles down the river, sir; and this was twisted round one of the thwarts—the sleeve just tied round, sir, to keep it in its place.”
As he spoke he held up a light coat, saturated with water, and muddy and crumpled, where it had dried on the way back.
Neil Harley took the coat and examined it carefully. Then laying it down, he said, slowly:
“It looks like Chumbley’s; but I cannot feel sure.”
“I made sure it was one of the lieutenant’s coats, sir,” said the sergeant, respectfully.
“Let us see the boat,” said Mr Perowne. “Where is it?”
“Down at your landing-stage, sir, and—”
He stopped short, as if afraid he should say too much.
“What is it, Harris? Speak out,” said the Resident, sternly.
“She seems to have been laid hold of, sir, by one of them great river beasts. There’s a lot of teeth marks, and a bit ripped out of her side.”