Little doubt of that. Had Nash wanted her to visit him in the midst of a fiery furnace, she’d have rushed into it headlong.
But there were difficulties in the way. Charlotte Tinkle was not one of your strong-minded women who are born without nerves; and to tell her that Nash Caromel was living, and not dead, might send her into hysterics for a week. Besides that, Harry Tinkle was Nash Caromel’s bitter enemy: if he learnt the truth he might be for handing him over, dying or living, to old Jones the constable.
“I don’t see how she is to be got here, and that’s the truth, Caromel,” spoke the Squire, awaking from his reverie. “It’s not a thing I should like to undertake. Here comes Duffham.”
“I know what you are thinking of—Harry Tinkle,” returned Nash, as Duffham felt his pulse. “When I was supposed to have died, balking him of his revenge, he grew mad with rage. For a month afterwards he abused me to everybody in the most atrocious terms: in public rooms, in——”
“Who told you that?” interrupted the Squire. “Nave?”
“Nave. I saw no one else to tell me.” Duffham laughed.
“Then it was just as false as Nave is. You might have known Harry Tinkle better.”
Nash looked up. “False!—was it?”
“Why, of course it was,” repeated the Squire. “I say you might have known Harry Tinkle better.”
Nash sighed. “Well, I suppose you think he might give me trouble now. But he would hardly care to apprehend a dying man.”