e's his wife and not your's; your
sacrificing yourself--as you call it, Lionel--would not make her any the
less or the more so. I am abroad a good deal at night, especially now,
when there's so much sickness about, and I shall perhaps come across the
fellow. Won't I pin him if I get the chance."

"Jan," said Lionel, catching hold of his brother's arm to detain him as
he was speeding away, for they had reached the gate of Verner's Pride,
"be cautious that not a breath of this suspicion escapes you. For my
poor wife's sake."

"No fear," answered Jan. "If it gets about, it won't be from me, mind. I
am going to believe in the ghost henceforth, you understand. Except to
you and Bourne."

"If it gets about," mechanically answered Lionel, repeating the words
which made most impression upon his mind. "You think it will get about?"

"Think! It's safe to," answered Jan. "Had old Frost and Dan Duff and
Cheese not been great gulls, they'd have taken it for Fred himself; not
his ghost. Bourne suspects. From a hint he dropped to me just now at
Hook's, I find he takes the same view of the case that I do."

"Since when have you suspected this, Jan?"

"Not for many hours. Don't keep me, Lionel. Bitterworth may be dying,
for aught I know, and so may Alice Hook."

Jan went on like a steam-engine. Lionel remained, standing at his
entrance-gate, more like a prostrate being than a living man.

Thought after thought crowded upon him. If it was really Frederick
Massingbird in life, how was it that he had not made his appearance
before? Where had he been all this while? Considerably more than two
years had elapsed since the supposed death. To the best of Lionel's
recollection, Sibylla had said Captain Cannonby _buried_ her husband;
but it was a point into which Lionel had never minutely inquired. Allow
that Jan's suggestion was correct--that he did not die--where had he
been since? What had prevented him from joining or seeking his wife?
What prevented him doing it now? From what motive could he be in
concealment in the neighbourhood, stealthily prowling about at night?
Why did he not appear openly? Oh, it could not--it could not be
Frederick Massingbird!

Which way should he bend his steps? Indoors, or away? Not indoors! He
could scarcely _bear_ to see his wife, with this dreadful uncertainty
upon him. Restless, anxious, perplexed, miserable, Lionel Verner turned
towards Deerham.

There are some natures upon whom a secret, awful as