"Dead! What do you mean, fellow?" I asked.
"I mean what I say," answered he. "Everybody knows Measter Frank Vavasour is dead, AND buried."
My head began to whirl, and I leaned against the wall to steady myself. The smith and his man whispered together.
"Do you know particulars of this pretended death?" at length I asked.
"Particulars? I should think I do," answered Johnson, nodding to his man, who went out. "The young gentleman's body was found in the pool in Belgrave Park a week ago last Sunday, shockingly disfigured, for the eels had been at his face, but he was swore to at the inquest by his manservant and his own father. His friends had been looking for him high and low, for more than a week, when they dragged the pool."
The innkeeper paused at this.
"Go on," I said hoarsely. So Boswell's craft had dressed some other man in my clothes and mangled his face.
"At the inquest, Luke Barnby, who had been the young squire's bodyservant, told how one of the Dutchmen had tried to take his master's life, and how Master Frank went out to fight the Dutchman on Sunday, the very Sunday before the one he was found, and had never been seen or heard of since. So order was given to arrest the Dutchman, and they took him."
Again the narrator paused.
"Well, what next?" I asked.