Monk turned his eyes and started back in wonder, while William Jones shrieked and fell forward on his face. Standing before them in the sunshine was the reality or the semblance of—the murdered young man of the caravan!
CHAPTER XV.—THE “MURDERED” MAN!
Yes, it was the artist himself, looking a little pale, and carrying one arm in a sling, but otherwise, to all appearance, in good health.
Monk had strong nerves, but he could not prevent himself from uttering a wild cry of horror and wonder. At the same moment, Matt went to the young man’s side, and with an air of indescribable trust and sweetness, took his hand—the hand which was free—and put it to her lips.
“The proof is here,” he said calmly, “here upon my person. I am not quite dead, you see, Mr. Monk of Monkshurst, and I thought I should like to bring it you myself. It consists, as you are aware, of Colonel Monk’s dying message, written on the fly-leaf of his Prayer-book, and of the marriage certificate of his wife; both these having been placed upon his child’s person, concealed by the unsuspecting and illiterate Jones, and found by me after a lapse of many years.”
Monk did not speak; his tongue was frozen. He stood aghast, opening and shutting his clenched hands spasmodically, and shaking like a leaf. Reassured to some extent by the sound of the voice, unmistakably appertaining to a person of flesh and blood, William Jones gradually uplifted his face, and looked in ghastly wonder at the speaker.
“You will be anxious to ascertain,” proceeded Brinkley, with his old air of lightness, “by what accident, or special Providence, I arose from the grave in which you politely entombed me. The explanation is very simple. My young friend here, Matt, the foundling, or, as I should rather call her, Miss Monk of Monkshurst, came to my assistance, attended to my injuries, which were not so serious as you imagined, and enabled me, before daybreak, to gain the kindly shelter of my caravan. Tim and a certain rural doctor did the rest. I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Monk, but I felt bound to keep my promise—to interfere seriously with your little arrangements, if you persistently refused to do justice to this young lady.”
As he spoke, Monk uttered a savage oath and rushed towards the road; but Marshall was after him in a moment, and sprang upon him. There was a quick struggle. Suddenly Monk drew a knife, opened it, and brandished it in the air; so that it would have gone ill with his assailant if the herculean Tim, coming to the rescue, had not pinioned him from behind. In another moment the knife was lying on the grass, and Monk was neatly handcuffed by the detective.