I was as much surprised as any for a few seconds. But there were points of difference—Jim Dutton was rather a taller and every way a larger man than Mark Wylder. His face, too, was broader and coarser, but in features and limbs the relative proportions were wonderfully preserved. It was such an exaggerated portrait as a rustic genius might have executed upon a sign-board. He had the same black, curly hair, and thick, black whiskers: and the style of his dress being the same, helped the illusion. In fact, it was a rough, but powerful likeness—startling at the moment—unexceptionable at a little distance—but which failed on a nearer and exacter examination. There was, beside, a scar, which, however, was not a very glaring inconsistency, although it was plainly of a much older standing than the date of Mark's disappearance. All that could be got from Jim Dutton was that 'he thought he might be mistook' and so attended. But respecting Mr. Mark Wylder he could say 'nowt.' He knew 'nowt.'
Lord Chelford was called away at this moment by an urgent note. It was to request his immediate attendance at Redman's Farm, to see Captain Lake, who was in a most alarming state. The hand was Dorcas's—and Lord Chelford jumped into the little pony carriage which awaited him at the door of the 'Silver Lion.'
When he reached Redman's Farm, Captain Lake could not exert himself sufficiently to speak for nearly half-an-hour. At the end of that time he was admitted into the tiny drawing-room in which the captain lay. He was speaking with difficulty.
'Did you see Buddle, just now?'
'No, not since morning.'
'He seems to have changed—bad opinion—unless he has a law object—those d—d doctors—never can know. Dorcas thinks—I'll do no good. Don't you think—he may have an object—and not believe I'm in much danger? You don't?'
Lake's hand, with which he clutched and pulled Chelford's, was trembling.
'You must reflect, my dear Lake, how very severe are the injuries you have sustained. You certainly are in danger—great danger.'
Lake became indescribably agitated, and uttered some words, not often on his lips, that sounded like desperate words of supplication. Not that seaworthy faith which floats the spirit through the storm, but fragments of its long-buried wreck rolled up from the depths and flung madly on the howling shore.
'I'd like to see Rachel,' at last he said, holding Chelford's hand in both his, very hard. 'She's clever—and I don't think she gives me up yet, no—a drink!—and they think I'm more hurt than I really am—Buddle, you know—only an apothecary—village;' and he groaned.