Presently, Hepworth rose and went over to the window and looked out. In the yard stood his horse and trap, with two or three stable-boys lounging near it; through the gate of the inn he saw people pass to and fro about the market-place, bright and pleasant in the light of the afternoon sun; the laughter of a child in a neighbouring garden came to his ears. He noted all these things with a strange sense of keenness—they seemed to bum themselves into his brain.
"She told me you were dead," he said, suddenly turning to his companion. "Dead!"
"She does not know that I am not," answered Verrell. "I—do you know my story?"
"Yes," said Hepworth. "Yes—yes—I know."
"They thought I was dead—shot—and I saw in the papers that they found my body. It was not mine—I escaped."
Hepworth continued to stare out of the window. He was not yet able to think clearly
