“Ay, and it was for life, like,” said Moredock, in a satisfied tone. “It warn’t murder, doctor, were it?”
“By law, I suppose not,” said North quietly, as he stood in his former attitude with his hand over his eyes. “There, we must not waste time. My experiment is over now, and we must restore this place to its old state.”
“Not murder,” said Moredock, with a chuckle; “of course not. I feel easy now.”
He held the lanthorn over the extended form of Tom Candlish, which looked strangely ghastly by the feeble yellow light; and as he bent down, he could see that the young squire had received two terrible blows—one on his forehead, and the other on the right temple—both of which had bled and left a hideous stain upon the sawdust.
“Dally ’ll have to try again,” said the old man to himself. “Enough a year to make me comf’table, and the doctor to keep me alive. You wouldn’t ha’ done that, Tom Candlish, over the money; and you couldn’t ha’ kept me alive when I was badly. You’d ha’ been a brute to the gel too ’fore you’d had her long. There, it’s all a blessing in disguise, as Parson Salis says.”
He grinned in his ghoul-like way, and turned to touch North on the elbow.
“Doctor!” he whispered.
North’s hands fell from before his eyes, and he turned to gaze wildly at the old man, as one gazes when suddenly awakened from a too heavy sleep.
“Yes! What is it? I’d forgotten. My head, man.”
“Look here,” whispered the old sexton, leading him to the far right-hand corner of the vault, where a particularly florid old tarnished coffin handle dimly reflected the light in its ancient niche.