“Where’d be the good of that?” asked practical Jan.  “If it is Fred Massingbird in the flesh, she’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 this, tells with appalling force, rendering it next to impossible to keep silence.  The imparting it to some friend, the speaking of it, appears to be a matter of dire necessity.  It was so in this instance to Lionel Verner.

He was on his way to the vicarage.  Jan had mentioned that Mr. Bourne shared the knowledge—­if knowledge it could be called; and he was one in whom might be placed entire trust.