But John lay in the next room, kept awake by the sick man's perpetual groaning and by the train of thought which ran through his brain. There were indeed more strange things than his philosophy could account for, but the strangest of all was that the squire should know who the tramp was; he must know it, John thought, since he knew all about him, his former love for Mrs. Goddard and his recent presence in the neighbourhood. The young man's curiosity was roused to its highest pitch, and he longed to know more. He at once guessed that there must have been much intimate confidence between Mr. Juxon and Mrs. Goddard; he suspected moreover that there must be some strange story connected with her, something which accounted for the peculiar stamp of a formerly luxurious life which still clung to her, and which should explain her residence in Billingsfield But John was very far from suspecting the real truth.
His mind was restless and the inaction became intolerable to him. He rose at last and went again into the room where his friend was watching. Mr. Juxon sat by the bedside, the very picture of patience, one leg crossed over the other and his hands folded together upon his knee, his face paler than usual but perfectly calm, his head bent a little to one side and his smooth hair, which had been slightly ruffled in the encounter in the park, as smooth as ever. It was a very distinctive feature of him; it was part of the sleek and spotless neatness which Mrs. Ambrose so much admired.
"It is my turn, now," said John. "Will you lie down for a couple of hours?"
The squire rose. Being older and less excitable than John, he was beginning to feel the need of rest. People who have watched often by the sick know how terribly long are those hours of the night between three o'clock and dawn; long always, but seeming interminable when one is obliged to listen perpetually to a long-drawn, inarticulate moaning, a constant effort to speak which never results in words.
"You are very good," said Mr. Juxon, quietly. "If you will give him the things from time to time, I will take a nap."
With that he went and lay down upon the couch, and in three minutes was as sound asleep as though he were in bed. John sat by the sick man and looked at his flushed features and listened to the hard-drawn breath followed each time by that terrible, monotonous, mumbling groan.
It might have been three-quarters of an hour since the squire had gone to sleep when John thought he saw a change in Goddard's face; it seemed to him that the flush subsided from his forehead, very slowly, leaving only a bright burning colour in his cheeks. His eyes seemed suddenly to grow clearer and a strange look of intelligence came into them; his whole appearance was as though illuminated by a flash of some light different from that of the candles which burned upon the table. John rose to his feet and came and looked at him. The groaning suddenly ceased and Goddard's eyelids, which had been motionless for hours, moved naturally. He appeared to be observing John's face attentively.
"Where is the squire?" he asked quite naturally—so naturally that John was startled.
"Asleep in the next room," replied the latter.
"I did not kill him after all," said Goddard, turning himself a little as though to be more at his ease.