“Well?” said North.
“What yer talking about, doctor? You don’t mean—mean as—as—”
“I mean that the man is only stunned,” said North, frowning, as he stood gazing down at his rival; “and we must alter all our plans, Moredock. Neither you nor I will be hung for murdering Tom Candlish,” he added, with a half-savage laugh, as resentment against the man began to take the place of the horror which had pervaded his soul.
“Why, doctor,” whispered Moredock, “you’re a bit off your head. Come, man, quick; and let’s get it done. No one will know.”
“Pshaw! I’m as sane as you are when this confused feeling is not here.”
“But Tom Candlish—the squire?”
“I tell you he’s alive, man! Do you not understand?”
And the party in question endorsed his rival’s statement by uttering a low moan.
At that moment, by natural magnetism, or influence, or occult action of mind upon mind, or whatever it may have been, two people who had lain wakeful and excited in their separate beds, now feverish, now perspiring profusely from horror and abject fear, turned their weary heads upon their pillows, and dropped off fast asleep.
The name of one of the sleepers was Leo Salis, and of the other Joe Chegg.