He paused, suddenly recollecting that the discovery of Gipsy was a secret.
"She was what?" said the doctor, fixing his keen eyes on the old man's face.
"Well, hang it, Wiseman, I suppose it makes no difference whether I tell you or not. Gipsy is not Mrs. Gower's niece: she is a foundling."
"Yes," said the doctor, pricking up his ears.
"Yes, last Christmas Eve, just seventeen years ago, Mrs. Gower, returning from A——, found Gipsy lying on the beach, near the south end of the city."
Long habit had given Dr. Wiseman full control over his emotions, but now the blood rushed in a purple tide to his sallow face, as he leaped from his chair and fairly shouted:
"What!"
"Eh? Lord bless the man!—what's the matter?" said the squire, staring at him until his little fat eyes seemed ready to burst from their sockets.
"What did you say?—found her on the beach on Christmas Eve, seventeen years ago?" said the doctor, seizing him fiercely by the arm, and glaring upon him with his yellow eyes.
"Yes, I said so. What in the name of all the demons is the matter with you?" roared the squire, shaking him off. "What do you know about it?"