“I didn’t foller ye. I was sittin’ yonder, behind that clump of spruce, when ye hove in sight. I didn’t mean to show up at all, but when I saw ye so eager by this here tombstone, I was kind o’ curious to know what yer game was, and crept on ye unawares. But, I say, youngster,” the man added, suddenly taking a step forward, and peering eagerly into Geoffrey’s face, “who are you?”
The rough fellow had actually grown pale, and his breath came in gasps through his tightly locked teeth.
“I am an Eastern man,” answered Geoffrey, evasively.
“Is—is your name Geoffrey?” the man demanded, in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes.”
“Ha! Geoffrey Dale?”
“Yes.”
“Great Christopher! I—I thought so. Something about yer sent a chill over me the minute I laid eyes on ye,” said the man, trembling and terribly agitated. “Boy—boy,” he continued, in a tone of fear, “how on earth came ye and me to turn up together here, of all places in the world?”
Geoffrey was amazed at his words.
Evidently the man knew something about him, and with that knowledge there was connected some incident that caused him personal fear.