"Mr. Maturin!" said he. "Mr. Maturin indeed!"
"Well," said I, "what about him?"
"Do you think we don't know who he was?"
"Who was he?" I asked, defiantly.
"You ought to know," said he. "You got locked up through him the
other time, too. His favorite name was Raffles then."
"It was his real name," I said, indignantly. "And he has been
dead for years."
My captor simply chuckled.
"He's at the bottom of the sea, I tell you!"
But I do not know why I should have told him with such spirit,
for what could it matter to Raffles now? I did not think;
instinct was still stronger than reason, and, fresh from his
funeral, I had taken up the cudgels for my dead friend as
though he were still alive. Next moment I saw this for myself,
and my tears came nearer the surface than they had been yet; but
the fellow at my side laughed outright.
"Shall I tell you something else?" said he.
"As you like."
"He's not even at the bottom of that grave! He's no more dead
than you or I, and a sham burial is his latest piece of
villainy!"
I doubt whether I could have spoken if I had tried. I did not
try. I had no use for speech. I did not even ask him if he was
sure, I was so sure myself. It was all as plain to me as
riddles usually are when one has the answer. The doctor's
alarms, his unscrupulous venality, the simulated illness, my own
dismissal, each fitted in its obvious place, and not even the
last had power as yet to mar my joy in the one central fact to
which all the rest were as tapers to the sun.
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