“Who?”
Roger regarded his companion with triumphant eyes. “That blighted little parson, with a face like a goat—the Rev. Samuel Blinking Meadows!”
“What!”
“Yes, that’s a bit of a facer, isn’t it? So off I made in a bee-line for Samuel. He’d pressed me to drop in whenever I got the chance, so there was no difficulty about that. I dropped. He was delighted to see me—oh, delighted! And I was delighted to see him. We were both delighted. We almost wept on one another’s necks with delight. It was a touching scene. He wanted to discuss the murder, but I didn’t. I wanted to discuss something quite different. Theology, Anthony.”
“Ah!” said Anthony.
“Quite so. I discussed theology. He didn’t. He didn’t even know the name of Moses’s father-in-law, Anthony. Shocking ignorance for a clergyman, wasn’t it? Of course I didn’t let him see how shockingly ignorant I thought him. I was a model of tact. I told him that Omar Khayyám was my favourite among the minor prophets, and he never turned a hair. I remarked that if Queen Elizabeth hadn’t written the Athanasian Creed, Cardinal Manning would never have condemned Joan of Arc to a diet of worms, and he batted no eyelash. Oh, we did enjoy ourselves.”
“What you’re getting at, I suppose,” observed Anthony acutely, “is that the chap isn’t a parson at all.”
“Anthony, you read my thoughts. No, the chap isn’t a parson at all.”
“Good!” said Anthony.
“So all I had to do then was to get his finger-print in the orthodox manner, and come swiftly away. So that’s that.”