“But—great heavens, man,” she cried—“I have known one Dandy Chater since his boyhood; we have grown up side by side. What other man can there be in his likeness?”
“I don’t care anything about that,” said the Doctor, obstinately, “and I’m not going to tell you more. I know that there are two—that one is dead, and t’other living; that’s all.”
“But, my good man—I implore you to relieve my anxiety. Can’t you see my position? Which of these men is it who committed the murder of which the living one is accused; and which has been my friend—and my lover?”
The Doctor shook his head helplessly. “The Lord only knows,” he said; “I don’t!”
CHAPTER XXII
OGLEDON PLAYS HIS LAST CARD
Philip Chater, after being tumbled so unceremoniously out of the fly, lost no time in scrambling to his feet, with the aid of Captain Quist and the man of the melancholy visage. He found some difficulty in getting up on his own account, by reason of the handcuffs which still adorned his wrists. The Captain, now that his first lament was over concerning the wonderful silk hat, picked up the wreckage of his headgear out of the dust, and became in a moment the resolute man of action.
“Phil, my lad,” he said, briskly—“we ’aven’t got a moment to throw away. At the rate that there ’oss is a goin’, they’ll be in Chelmsford, with the town roused, in about ’arf an hour; and then they’ll begin ter scour the country, if yer like. Luckily it’s dark, an’ the moon ain’t a showin’ ’er face as much as she was; so we’ll cut straight across these ’ere fields, an’ lie close for a bit at the circus. Lor’—wot a lucky thing it is that I took to ’osses an’ sawdust!”
Philip was hurried along so rapidly, and assisted over stiles and through gates and hedges at such a pace, that he found it quite impossible to ask any questions. The Captain kept an arm tightly locked in his, as though he feared Philip might escape again, on his own account; while the melancholy man scouted in advance, on the lookout for possible surprises. In this order, after going at a great rate for some half hour or so, they came to a place where a few lights were gleaming among trees, and some shadowy figures moving to and fro. In the pale light of the moon, a huge tent stood up as a background to the picture, the front of which was occupied by one or two smaller tents, and a couple of caravans. Without stopping for anything, the Captain dived in amongst these, pulled open the door of one of the caravans, and motioned to Philip to go in.
The place was dimly lighted by a little oil lamp hung at one side; Philip recognised it, at the first glance, as the caravan in which he had escaped from Chelmsford. The Captain and the melancholy man following him in, the latter closed the door carefully, while the former produced from a little locker, various bottles and glasses with a smiling face.
“Not a word, Phil, my boy,” said the Captain, in a hoarse whisper—“till sich time as you gets a drop of summink warmin’ inside yer. You’ve ’ad sich an uncommonly lively time lately, an’ ’ave bin tumbled about to that extent, as it’s a marvel ter me if you ’ave any system left at all. So down with it, Phil, my lad—with the noble sentiment—(I feels like a boy-pirate meself!)—‘Confusion to the perlice!’”