"Fred himself?" she mechanically uttered.
"I suppose so. Fred himself. Not his ghost."
"Do you mean that he has come to life again?" she rapidly rejoined.
"Well, you can call it so if you like," said Jan. "I expect that, in point of fact, he has never been dead. The report of his death must have been erroneous; one of those unaccountable mistakes that do sometimes happen to astonish the world."
Deborah West took in the full sense of the words, and sunk down on the big stone jar. She turned all over of a burning heat; she felt her hands beginning to twitch with emotion.
"You mean that he is alive?—that he has never been dead?" she gasped.
Jan nodded.
"Oh, Mr. Jan! Then, what is—what is Sibylla?"
"Ah," said Jan, "that's just it. She's the wife of both of 'em—as you may say."
For any petty surprise or evil, Miss Deborah would have gone off in a succession of screams, of pseudo-faints. This evil was all too real, too terrible. She sat with her trembling hands clasped to pain, looking hopelessly at Jan.