“Where, in India? Was one standing on the ground looking at his double go to heaven? Or was it at one of those drawing-room shows where a medium holds conversation with your soul, while your body sleeps on the lounge? By George, Crocker, I thought you were a sensible man.”
No wonder I got angry. But I might have come at some proper estimation of Farrar's incredulity by that time.
“I suppose you wouldn't take a lady's word,” I growled.
“Not for that,” he said, busy again with the sail stops; “nor St. Chrysostom's, were he to come here and vouch for it. It is too damned improbable.”
“Stranger things than that have happened,” I retorted, fuming.
“Not to any of us,” he said. Presently he added, chuckling: “He'd better not get into the clutches of that man Drew.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded. Farrar was exasperating at times.
“Drew will wind those handcuffs on him like tourniquets,” he laughed.
There seemed to be something behind this remark, but before I could inquire into it we were interrupted by Mr. Cooke, who was standing on the beach, swearing and gesticulating for the boat.
“I trust,” said Farrar, as we rowed ashore, “that this blind excitement will continue, and that we shall have the extreme pleasure of setting down our friend in Her Majesty's dominions with a yachting-suit and a ham sandwich.”