“You bitter dolt!” he roared, with a withering sneer. “Understand that the chance I gave you is withdrawn forever. There are means—there are means; and I——”
He stopped; gulped; put his hand to his throat, and walked out of the house without another word.
I stood looking after him, all blazing with anger. No least fear of the evil creature was in me, but only a blank fierce astonishment that he should thus have dared to brave me on my own ground. What cupidity was that, indeed, that could not only think to gloss over long years of merciless torment by a few false suave words, but could actually hope to find the profit of his condescension in a post-prandial gorging of the fragments his inordinate gluttony of avarice had passed over!
However, putting all thought of him from me, I returned to my father.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
A FRUITLESS SEARCH.
One result of Dr. Crackenthorpe’s visit was that I determined to then and there push my secret inquiries to a head in the direction of my friend, the sexton of St. John’s.
I had not seen or heard of this man since the day of his seizure in the archway of the close, but I thought his attack must surely by now have yielded and left him sane again.
That very afternoon, leaving my father comfortably established with book and paper, I walked over to the old churchyard under the hill and looked about among the graves for some sign of him who farmed them. The place was empty and deserted; it showed clearly that the hand of order was withdrawn and had not been replaced.
Not knowing whither to go to make inquiries, I loitered idly about some little time longer, in the hope that chance might throw some one who could direct me in my way.
Within my vision two mounds only stood out stark and sterile from the tangled green of Death’s garden, and one was Modred’s and the other the grave of the murdered man.