A man stood at the
window, holding back the shutter, and looking out attentively over the
dim void of the burial-ground. The man was Richard Turlington. The room
in which he was watching was a room in his own house.
A momentary spark of light flashed up, as from a kindled match, in the
burial-ground. Turlington instantly left the empty room in which he had
been watching. Passing down the back garden of the house, and crossing
a narrow lane at the bottom of it, he opened a gate in a low stone wall
beyond, and entered the church-yard. The shadowy figure of a man of
great stature, lurking among the graves, advanced to meet him. Midway
in the dark and lonely place the two stopped and consulted together in
whispers. Turlington spoke first.
"Have you taken up your quarters at the public-house in the village?"
"Yes, master."
"Did you find your way, while the daylight lasted, to the deserted
malt-house behind my orchard wall?"
"Yes, master."
"Now listen--we have no time to lose. Hide there, behind that monument.
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