Beatrice threw her head back and laughed hysterically.

"You'll never write a play like it, Philip!" she exclaimed. "There never
was anything like it before. Now, Mr. Dane, what is it you say in America
when you want to introduce anybody?--shake hands with Mr. Douglas
Romilly--that's it. Shake hands with the dead man here and then get on
with your arresting. He must be dead if you say so, but he doesn't look
it, does he?"

Philip's face had become a more natural colour. His eyes had never left
the other man's. He swayed a little on his feet and his voice seemed to
him to come from a long way off.

"Douglas! It isn't you, Douglas! ... It isn't you really?"

"I wish you'd all leave off staring at me as though I were a ghost," the
other man answered, almost pettishly. "I'm Douglas Romilly, right enough.
You needn't look in such a blue funk, Philip," he went on, his fingers
mechanically rearranging his collar and tie, which Beatrice had
disarranged. "I served you a beastly trick and you went for me. I should
have done the same if I'd been in your place. On the other hand, I rather
turned the tables on you by keeping quiet. Perhaps it's up to me to
explain."

Elizabeth, feeling her way by the mantelpiece, came to Philip's side. His
arm supported her, holding her as though in a vise.

"Is that your cousin?" she whispered hoarsely. "Is that Douglas Romilly?
Is he alive, after all?"