“It’ll fit him,” whispered Moredock. “All the men Candlishes are ’bout the same size.
“There, doctor,” he continued, as he set the lid down. “Now, then, to make all safe.”
The old man’s words seemed to rouse North from his dreamy state, and with a start he looked at the old wretch before him, then at the empty coffin, and his quick medical appreciation of the situation seemed for the first time to have fully returned.
“Here; hold the light,” he said.
“Better set it down there,” whispered Moredock. “We can see better, then.”
“Hold the light, I say,” cried the doctor sternly; and he went down on one knee by the young squire’s side.
Moredock looked on wonderingly, for it had not occurred to him to make any inquiry into the young man’s state. North had as good as told him that he was slain, and to have questioned the doctor’s verdict would have been unnatural. He stood there then in a bent position, holding the lanthorn, as North made a rapid examination of the young baronet, and then rose to his feet in a calm, practical manner, uttering a sigh of relief.
“Ready, doctor?” whispered Moredock, to whom all this seemed in the highest degree unnecessary.
“Ready, man? No. Put that ghastly thing away. Tom Candlish will go on working wickedness for years after you’ve been under ground.”
Moredock straightened himself up, and held the lanthorn above his head, so that its light could fall upon the doctor’s face. Then, apparently not satisfied, he lowered it, moved the wire slide, and opened the little door, before turning the light on the doctor’s face again.