“He’s in, I s’pose, Mr Brigley?” said the official, looking very serious and important.
“Oh, yes; he’s in,” said Jerry, excitedly; “but—tell me—have you found him?”
“Just got a wire, Mr Brigley, from Chedleigh, fifty mile away, sir!”
Jerry caught at one of the hall chairs, and made it scroop on the stone floor.
The news was correct enough, and the next day an inquest was held upon the cruelly disfigured body which had been discovered, stripped by the action of the flood, and buried in sand and stones.
Jerry was there to give his evidence, along with that of others; and, looking haggard and suffering from mental anxiety, Mr Draycott was there to give his. The medical man who had been called told of his examination, and, as there seemed to be no doubt as to the identity, a verdict was readily returned. Two days later there was a funeral at Richard Frayne’s native place, and the unfortunate lad was laid to his rest—aged eighteen, people read upon his breastplate—just about the same time that Mark Frayne was lying upon his back, gazing at the open window, through which there came the pleasant odour of new-made hay, and wondering why he was there in bed, while a woman in white cap and apron was sitting reading.
“I say,” he whispered at last; and the nurse started up, smiling.
“Yes?” she said, coming to his bedside.
“Who are you?”
“The nurse. Don’t speak, please. You have been ill.”