thicket and disappeared, leaving us stupidly staring at the place where he had stood.
Philpot was the first to break the silence.
“Well, upon my word!” he exclaimed, “if that fellow ain’t a puzzle there never was one in the world.”
“He’s a gentleman, at all events,” I replied coolly, “which, considering the way you acted, is more than I can say for you.”
“Come, come, George, none of that!” cried Maurice hastily.
“Thank you,” replied the Doctor. “Your remark is plainness itself, Wylde, and I am free to admit it is not undeserved.”
“The same may be said of me,” added Maurice. “I can never get used to that man’s face.”
“I’d give something if I could have touched it,” added the Doctor. “It’s painted, just as sure as you live.”
“Nonsense! It’s nothing of the sort,” I answered, testily. “Disease may have produced it, but fraud, never.”
“Don’t be too sure, Wylde,” said the Doctor.
“But I am sure. Remember I have seen it in the daylight.”
“You are wrong, Doctor,” added Maurice. “You are certainly wrong, and George is just as certainly right. Did you in your travels ever see anything like it before?”
“Never!”
“Or hear of any disease which could produce it?”
“I am certain there is none. In my younger days I devoted a year or two to the study of medicine—that was before I thought of the pulpit. I can assure you both that disease never made that face what it is.”
“In other words, it is as unaccountable to you as to Wylde and myself; as unaccountable as the man’s sudden appearance among us. Of course, he was not at Ballambong, or we should have seen him, and, even if he was, why should he go beating his way through the jungle instead of choosing the path?”
“Conundrums, everyone of them, and I am not Yankee enough to be good at guessing,” replied the Doctor.
But I had not regained my temper yet, for the recollection of the bag still troubled me.
“Explain the mystery or not, as you can,” I said, “the fact remains, Philpot, that the man saved your life, and you were barely civil to him in return.”
