Austin Wingate approached the unconscious man, and scrutinised the white, drawn features closely. When Grant had uttered those words, he could hardly believe his ears. Had the shock been too much for the old man’s reason?
But as he gazed intently, the conviction grew upon him that Grant was right. There was a little resemblance between the Cabinet Minister and the insensible man lying there. Their figures were much the same, and in the half-light a mere cursory glance could not have detected them apart.
But to those who, like Grant and Austin, knew Reginald Monkton intimately, there were striking points of difference at once apparent.
Wingate drew a deep sigh of relief.
“You are right. Grant, it is not your master! He looks ghastly, doesn’t he? The driver said that he was drunk, but I don’t believe it. The man, whoever he is, seems to me as if he were dying.”
At that moment, Sheila, her cheeks pale, her hand trembling so that she spilled the glass of water she was carrying, came into the sitting-room.
Austin rushed towards her and, taking the glass from her, pressed her trembling hand. At a moment of acute tension like that, he knew she would not resent the action.
“Sheila, for God’s sake keep calm. It is not what we thought. The man we carried in here is not your father. He is a stranger, wearing your father’s clothes. Look for yourself, and you will see where the likeness ends.”
“Not my father?” she repeated mechanically, and flung herself down beside Grant. A moment’s inspection was enough to convince her. She rose from her knees.
“Thank God!” she cried, fervently. It had cut her to the heart to think that the father whom she so loved and revered should be brought home in such a condition. She was grateful that none but those three had been present.