“Tell what?”
“That he is alive, instead of being, as is supposed, under a gravestone in yonder churchyard. I am not sure but that you went to his funeral.”
Tod’s significant tone, half serious, half mocking, attracted Duffham’s curiosity more even than the words. But he still went on with his eels.
“Who is it?”
“Nash Caromel. There. Don’t fall off in a faint. Caromel has come to life.”
Down went Duffham’s fork. “Why—what on earth do you mean?”
“It is not a joke,” said Tod. “Nash Caromel has been alive all this time, concealed in his house—just as Francis Radcliffe was concealed in the tower. The Squire is with him now—and he is very ill.”
Duffham appealed to me. “Is this true, Johnny Ludlow?”
“Yes, sir, it is. We found him out to-night. He looks as if he were dying. Dobbs is sure he is. You never saw anything so like a ghost.”
Leaving his eels now, calling out to old Nomy that she might take away the supper, Duffham came off with us at once. Dobbs ran up as we passed his forge, and went with us to the turning, talking eagerly.