“From the look of that there body,” muttered the Captain to himself, as he strolled along, in the gathering twilight of the streets—“it’s bin in the water a day or two—in fact, it might ’ave bin longer, if I didn’t know as ’ow I’d seen poor old Phil on’y three days back. An’ to think as ’e was that strong an’ ’earty—an’ now!” The Captain did not finish his sentence; he shuddered, at the remembrance of that awful staring thing he had left on the muddy bank of the Thames; and—feeling somewhat faint—looked about for a house of refreshment. When he emerged, after imbibing several glasses of his favourite tonic, the world wore a brighter aspect; and the honest Captain, swaggering along the pavement, with an occasional lurch, as though a heavy gale of wind had struck him—had clean forgotten all about unpleasant bodies, or the chances and changes of this mortal life; had clean forgotten, in fact, anything but that the world was a good place, and decent rum a thing to be thankful for. Now it happened, by some unlucky chance, that Philip Chater—drawn, by strong influence, to the scene of the tragedy which had been so vividly stamped upon his mind—came, that night, to Woolwich; merely wandering aimlessly, with no settled plan as to the future, or, indeed, as to the next hour. And it happened, too, that, walking slowly along a dark street, and coming to the corner of it, he cannoned against a man, who was rolling along swiftly, chanting a song in a very loud and very deep voice. It was the Captain; and that gentleman no sooner caught sight of Philip, than his song stopped, in the very middle of a note; indeed, the note turned to a shriek, and Peter Quist, beating off the supposed apparition with both hands, backed away from it unsteadily; and then, recovering power of definite motion, fairly turned tail, and ran as if for his life—leaving Philip alone, at the corner of the street, staring after him in blank amazement. CHAPTER XI MISS VINT HEARS VOICES Philip stood, for some moments, turning over in his mind the probable cause of the extraordinary terror evinced by the Captain, while he watched the flying figure of that gentleman, careering down the street. After some little thought, he put down that sudden desire, on the Captain’s part, to get away from him, to a knowledge of the murder; and to a natural dread and abhorrence of the man he supposed to be guilty of it. He turned away, with bitterness in his heart, feeling that all the world was against him; and made his way back towards London by train. Arriving at Charing Cross, he bought an evening paper, and turned to see what news there might be concerning the dreadful thing which was always in his mind.