The Captain rose from his knees, still somewhat doubtfully, and came slowly round the table; approached Philip in gingerly fashion; and finally ventured to take one of his hands; squeezed it—squeezed it a little more. Then his face broke up into smiles, and he clapped Philip jovially on the shoulder. Remembering, however, the more serious part of the business, he darted to the window, and drew the curtain across it; then sat down, breathing hard, and staring at Philip with all his might. Finally, he got up, and came to Philip again, and shook hands with him, as though to assure himself that he was solid flesh and blood.
“This comes of keepin’ bad company,” ejaculated the Captain at last. “You gits yerself in the river—an’ very bloated you looks, I do assure you—you gits into jail—an’ you likewise gits out of it; an’ you frightens a honest sailor-man (leastways—sailor-man retired; circus-man now)—you frightens him nearly out of ’is wits. But still—it’s good to see you again; an’, if the Missis can find us a drain o’ something’—jist a toothful apiece—we can talk over things comfortable-like.”
It was just at this moment, as Mrs. Quist turned smilingly to get out bottles and glasses, that Philip discovered, to his consternation that little Clara Siggs, who had sat down on a sofa near him, was swaying to and fro, with a very white face, although she bravely tried to smile. He had just time to step forward, and catch her in his arms, when she gave a sort of gasp, and fainted dead away. Overwrought for so long, she had given way, now that the danger seemed over, and the tension relaxed.
Bitterly blaming himself for having exposed her to such trials, he picked her up tenderly in his arms, and, guided by Mrs. Quist, carried her upstairs to her room. There, being assured by that good woman that it was nothing more serious than a sudden attack of faintness, Philip left her in charge of the girl, and rejoined the Captain in the room below.
“One thing I must ask you, Captain,” he said when he was seated with that gentleman at the table—“and that is, in regard to your taking me for a ghost. What induced you to imagine I was anything but the Philip Crowdy whom you knew on the voyage from Australia?”
On this, the Captain, with much detail, entered into a full account of the finding of the body of the unfortunate Dandy Chater by himself and Cripps; and, although he did not know, of course, the name of the latter, the description he gave, and his statement that he had seen the little man on the night of his invasion of the upper room at “The Three Watermen,” enabled Philip to identify the man who had been with him when the body was found. For the first time, too, he understood the reason for the Doctor’s consternation on meeting him in the garden of the Cottage.
“I’m not surprised,” said Philip, “that you should have been upset at seeing me. The body you took from the river was that of my brother—whom I never knew in life. He was, I have every reason to believe, murdered; at all events, I found him lying dead on the river bank. I took his belongings; I took his place—and, by Heaven, Captain—I’ve taken his sins too. I’ve been chased and hunted like a dog for his sins; I’ve had the best woman in the world turn from me, as from a leper, for his sins; and I’ve been in jail for his sins. I put on this hideous disguise, at the whim of a moment; and now I cannot shake it off.”
“But there’s them as would swear to you, if need be,” urged the Captain.
“Not yet,” replied Philip, hurriedly. “The time may come when I shall be glad to declare who I really am; for the present it is impossible. Meanwhile—what of the body you found in the river?”
“Well—I’ve kep’a eye on the papers,” replied the Captain—“an’ I’ve read accounts of the inquest. They set it forth, clear and reg’lar, as ’ow the body ’ad bin left on the river-bank, by two parties wot was evidently afraid of ’avin’ their names mixed up in the business; of ’ow there was nothink on the body to show who it was—an’ the injury to the ’ead might have bin caused by barges, or anythink of that kind. Verdict in consequence—unknown man—found drowned. And, I suppose, buried accordin’.”