and so he asked me. I bade him
not acquaint you," continued the vicar, "but to bury the suspicion
within his own breast, breathing a word to none."

Evidence upon evidence! Every moment brought less loop-hole of escape
for Lionel. "How can it be?" he gasped. "If he is not dead, where can he
have been all this while?"

"I conclude it will turn out to be one of those every-day occurrences
that have little marvel at all in them. My thoughts were busy upon it,
while standing over the grave yonder. I suppose he must have been to the
diggings--possibly laid up there by illness; and letters may have
miscarried."

"You feel little doubt upon the fact itself--that it is Frederick
Massingbird?"

"I feel none. It is certainly he. Won't you come in and sit down?"

"No, no," said Lionel; and, drawing his hand from the vicar's, he went
forth again, he, and his heavy weight. Frederick Massingbird alive!

CHAPTER LVII.

A WALK IN THE RAIN.

The fine September morning had turned to a rainy afternoon. A heavy mist
hung upon the trees, the hedges, the ground--something akin to the mist
which had fallen upon Lionel Verner's spirit. The day had grown more
like a November one; the clouds were leaden-coloured, the rain fell.
Even the little birds sought the shelter of their nests.

One there was who walked in it, his head uncovered, his brow bared. He
was in the height of his fever dream. It is not an inapt name for his
state of mind. His veins coursed as with fever; his thoughts took all
the vague uncertainty of a dream. Little heeded he that the weather had
become chilly, or that the waters fell upon him!

What must be his course? What ought it to be? The more he dwelt on the
revelation of that day, the deeper grew his conviction that Frederick
Massingbird was alive, breathing the very air that he breathed. What
ought to be his course? If this were so, his wife was--not his wife.

It was obvious that his present, immediate course ought to be to solve
the doubt--to set it at rest. But how? It could only be done by
unearthing Frederick Massingbird; or he who bore so strange a
resemblance to him. And where was he to be looked for? To track the
hiding-place of a "ghost" is not an easy matter; and Lionel had no clue
where to find the track of this one. If staying in the village, he must
be concealed in some house; lying _perdu_ by day. It was very strange
that it should be so; that he should not openly show himself.

There