“Here, Bolter, I want you,” he said, hastily; and making his excuses for having to leave, the doctor hurried out and joined Mr Harley in the garden.
“You have had something brought in,” said the doctor, hastily. “Where is it?”
“Down by the landing-stage. Perowne has got up from his bed to come and see, and Stuart, Murad, and others are down there inspecting them.”
The doctor accompanied the Resident to the landing-stage, where, in the midst of a little group, lay some wet and torn rags and a sodden hat, muddied and out of shape; while, squatting hard by the foul garments, were a couple of Malay fishermen, who had found the scraps and other articles amongst the mangrove-roots miles away.
Dr Bolter threw off his coat and rolled up his sleeves to go down on one knee by the muddy bank, while with contracted eyes and puckered brow the young Rajah looked on.
“What do you make of them, doctor?” said the Resident, hoarsely.
“Lady’s silk dress that has not been taken off, but dragged from its hooks, and ripped and torn away. It seems to have been rolled over and over in the tide till it became fastened on to some snag.”
A shudder ran through the little party, and the doctor continued his examination.
“Hat,” he said, turning it over. “Dreadfully battered and soaked; but it is Chumbley’s, I think.”
“What is that?” said Mr Harley, in a low voice.