North did not answer, but followed the sexton, after a hurried glance round.
“It’s all right, sir; nothing left,” muttered Moredock, extinguishing the candle in his lanthorn. “Why, any one would think he was growing skeered. Brandy upsets some, and does others good.”
The old man closed the massive door of the mausoleum, and locked the gates of the iron railing, and as he did so, North uttered a low sigh full of relief, as if with the shutting up of the grim receptacle certain troublous feelings had been dismissed, and a strange haunting sensation had gone.
“S’pose you’d like me to take the bag on to my place, doctor, and bring it up to the Manor House to-night?”
“Yes, I should,” said North hastily; “I’ll talk to you then, Moredock. I’ll—”
He shuddered, and in place of parting at once from the old man, he kept close to his side, and followed him into his cottage, where he sat down while the old sexton drew the thin curtain over the casement and struck a light.
“Why, doctor,” he said, looking wonderingly at the white, scared face before him; “you’d better go home and mix yourself a dose. You’ve got something coming on.”
“Yes,” said North, with a ghastly smile; “I’m afraid I have something coming on. No—no! Nonsense! I’m tired. Not quite got over my fall. I shall be better soon.”
The old sexton shook his head and went to his locked-up chest, in which, with a good deal of rattling of keys, he deposited the doctor’s bag. He was in the act of shutting the heavy lid, when something made him turn to where he had left his companion seated, and he stared in amazement, for the chair was tenantless!
He had not heard North start from his seat and literally rush out of the cottage, as if pursued by some invisible force.