The crowd was drawing very close. Was I asleep or waking? Were my eyes playing tricks, my senses leaving me? What suddenly made the world seem to spin round and round? Who was it in the midst of the people—the man they were hustling—who raved and screamed? Was he a creature born of delirium, or a thing of flesh and blood?
It was from the girl at my side that recognition first came.
“It’s he!” she cried. “It’s he!”
It was he—the wretch who had set us all by the ears; who had fooled and duped us; who had played upon us, as a last stroke, a trick whose nature, even yet, I did not understand. I strode into the crowd.
“Let me pass! Make way for me!”
They made way. It was well for them they did; the strength of a dozen Samsons was that moment in my arms. I planted myself in front of him.
“How is it that you’ve come back—from the gates of hell?”
“Ferguson! It’s you!” He broke into a peal of laughter, which spoke of pain, not pleasure. “But I’ve not come back! They’re still stoking the fires!” He threw out his arms as if referring to the jeering mob, which pressed upon us. “Here are the attendant demons—can’t you see them?”
I continued standing still, regarding him.
“It is Edwin Lawrence, as I live. Edwin—not Philip.”