“I don’t see that that will make much difference to the sceptics,” said I.
“But I do,” said the Doc. “The camp doesn’t believe in it now because you’re you and I’m me. But who in Turkey or out of it can suspect fellows like Bishop and Nightingale?—that’s what I want to know.”
“And why not suspect Bishop and Nightingale?” I asked.
“Ach! ye might as well suspect a babe unborn. Not one of the two of them has the imagination of a louse. They’re plain, straightforward Englishmen—not Celtic fringe like you an’ me—an’ the camp knows it.”
“But don’t you suspect them yourself?” I asked. “You said the other day that you suspected me, you know.”
“So I did, but that’s different, as I say. These two are genuine enough.”
“No doubt,” said I, for I was quite open-minded about the possibilities of “spooking.” “Whom were they talking to last night?”
“Oh—just Sally, and Silas P. Warner, and that lot,” said the Doc. “Same crowd of spooks as we get ourselves.”
I glanced at him to see if he was joking. He wasn’t. Lord! Doc. dear, how I longed to laugh!