Verner; and so he asked me. I bade him
not acquaint you," continued the vicar, "but to bury the suspicion
within his own breast, breathing a word to none."
Evidence upon evidence! Every moment brought less loop-hole of escape
for Lionel. "How can it be?" he gasped. "If he is not dead, where can he
have been all this while?"
"I conclude it will turn out to be one of those every-day occurrences
that have little marvel at all in them. My thoughts were busy upon it,
while standing over the grave yonder. I suppose he must have been to the
diggings--possibly laid up there by illness; and letters may have
miscarried."
"You feel little doubt upon the fact itself--that it is Frederick
Massingbird?"
"I feel none. It is certainly he. Won't you come in and sit down?"
"No, no," said Lionel; and, drawing his hand from the vicar's, he went
forth again, he, and his heavy weight. Frederick Massingbird alive!
CHAPTER LVII.
A WALK IN THE RAIN.
The fine September morning had turned to a rainy afternoon. A heavy mist
hung upon the trees, the hedges, the ground--something akin to the mist
which had fallen upon Lionel Verner's spirit.
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