Instantly his face turned pale, and he shuddered as if in fear. At any rate, the ghost was real to him.
"Yer honour," he said, "I don't feel as if I can talk about her. I've played in 'Amlet, yer honour, along with Octavius Bumpus's travellin' theatre, and I can nail a made-up livin' ghost in a minnit; but this ghost didn't look made up. There was no blood, yer honour; she looked as if she 'ad bin waccinated forty times."
"And were the movements of her legs and arms natural?"
"No j'ints, Master Blake. She looked like a wooden figger without proper j'ints! Perhaps she 'ad a few wire pins in her 'natomy; but no j'ints proper."
"So you believe in this ghost?"
"Can't help it, yer honour."
"Simon, I don't. There's some deep-laid scheme on foot somewhere; and I think I can guess who's working it."
Simon started. "You don't think that 'ere waccinatin', sumnamblifyin' willain 'ev got the thing in 'and?"
I didn't speak, but looked keenly at him.
At first he did nothing but stare vacantly, but presently a look of intelligence flashed into his eyes. Then he gave a shrug, as if he was disgusted with himself, which was followed by an expression of grim determination.