"Then," said Wyllard, decisively, "it couldn't have been anything."
Charly did not appear satisfied, and it seemed to Wyllard that Overweg was also listening, but there was deep stillness outside now, and he dismissed the matter from his mind. A few minutes later it, however, seemed to him that a shadowy form appeared out of the gloom among the firs and faded into it again. This struck him as very curious, since if it had been one of the Kamtchadales he would have walked straight into camp, but he said nothing to his companions, and there was silence for a while until Charly rose softly to his feet.
"Get out as quietly as you can," he said, as he slipped by Wyllard, who crept after him to the entrance.
When he reached it his companion's voice rang out with a startling vehemence.
"Stop right now!" he cried, and after a pause, "Nobody's going to hurt you. Walk right ahead."
Then Wyllard felt his heart beat furiously, for a dusky, half-seen figure materialised out of the gloom, and grew into sharper form as it drew nearer to the sinking fire. The thing was wholly unexpected, almost incredible, but it was clear that the man could understand English, and his face was white. In another moment Wyllard's last doubt vanished, and he sprang forward with a gasp.
"Lewson—Tom Lewson," he said.
Then Charly thrust the man inside the tent, and when somebody lighted a lamp he sat down stupidly and looked at them. His face was gaunt and furrowed, and almost blackened by exposure to the frost, his hair was long, and tattered garments of greasy skins hung about him. There was also something that suggested bewildered incredulity in his eyes.
"It's real?" he said, slowly and haltingly. "You have come at last?"
They assured him that this was the case, and for a moment or two the man's face worked and he made a hoarse sound in his throat.