“It’s likely I’ll believe that,” sneered Ruthven. “I tell you the man is guilty. I have witnesses—proofs of the murder.”
“I don’t care what you have,” cried the lieutenant. “I want the man at once—I’ve parleyed with you far too long. If you don’t produce him I’ll search the house.”
Ruthven sat glowering like a tiger at bay. He scanned our resolute little party, and looked helplessly at the sullen, scowling faces of his own men. “I yield to force of arms,” he said hoarsely; “but I protest against this unjustifiable outrage. Lagarde, bring the fellow out!”
The storekeeper had meanwhile returned to the room, and now, at Ruthven’s bidding, he entered an apartment in the rear and partly closed the door behind him. For a brief interval we waited in silence, hearing only an indistinct murmur of voices. Then Lagarde reappeared, followed by the prisoner.
At sight of the man my heart gave a wild throb, and a cry of amazement was forced to my lips, for there before me, as dashing-looking as ever, but with cheeks slightly sunken and blanched from illness, stood Captain Myles Rudstone.
“You!” I gasped. “Back from the dead!”
“It’s the captain, sure enough!” shouted Carteret.
I half expected to see him vanish in thin air, but my doubts were dispelled when he came quickly forward and clasped my hand.
“Don’t stare at me as though I was a ghost,” he said laughingly. “You see I am real flesh and blood, my dear Carew. I have turned up again, like a bad penny.”
“I never dreamed that the prisoner could be you!” I exclaimed. “We believed you dead—buried under the snow.”