“Not a criminal?” yelped Jean.
“I’m jolly well hanged if I know what he is,” quoth the angry policeman. “But he’s no more Dawson than I am! Why, he ain’t even like him! Not remotely. And we’ve wasted half a day on a wild-goose chase!”
What more Constable Wilkins might have said was lost in a curious demonstration. The twins, who had been staring, with shining eyes, suddenly seized each other and executed a wild two-step down the hall. The door stood open; they danced through, and disappeared; the sound of their prancing feet died away upon the verandah. The doctor shook with silent laughter.
“But who said he was Dawson?” demanded the Sergeant.
“Why, I’m afraid we’d rather taken it for granted,” Mr. Weston admitted. “Perhaps I adopted my daughters’ view too readily; they seemed to have no doubt. Of course, he has been practically unconscious since they found him. He was a stranger—a delicate-looking man in a grey suit—and he seemed to be a fugitive.” He smiled a little. “Possibly I might have asked more questions if the rain hadn’t come just as we brought him home. But the rain seemed so much more important!”
“It did,” said the doctor. “After all, the circumstantial evidence was good enough to go on: you’d have censured them for not reporting their find, Sergeant.”
“I would,” admitted that officer. “Matter of fact, we’ve been calling them the ’uman sleuth-hounds since we heard! Oh, well, he’s not our man, so we needn’t worry you further, Mr. Weston.” They said good-bye, Constable Wilkins’s face still a study in mingled emotions.
On the verandah, the twins faced each other.
“But there’s no doubt he didn’t want the police on his track, Jo,” Jean said. “Do you think we ought to tell them?”
“I won’t!” said Jean obstinately. “He’s our discovery, and he’s sick, even if he is a criminal—and I don’t believe he is! We’ll tell Father, when the poor fellow is better. Fancy imagining any one ever would get better, with a horror like that Wilkins creature looking at one. He’d be clinking the handcuffs at you all the time!”