Rampole almost fell over the front steps in his hurry. The telephone was of the ancient type you crank up, and Mrs. Fell was already holding out the receiver to him.
"He's on his way," the voice of Dorothy Starberth told him. It was admirably calm now. "Watch the road for him. He's carrying a big bicycle lamp."
"How is he?"
"A little thick-spoken, but sober enough." She added, rather wildly, "You're all right, aren't you?"
"Yes. Now don't worry, please! We'll take care of it. He's in no danger, dear."
It was not until he was on his way out of the house that he remembered the last word he had quite unconsciously used over the phone. Even in the turmoil it startled him. He had no recollection whatever of using it at the time.
"Well, Mr. Rampole?" the rector boomed out of the dark.
"He's started. How far is the Hall from the prison?"
"A quarter of a mile beyond, in the direction of the railway station. You must have passed it last night." Saunders spoke absently, but he seemed more at his ease now that the thing was begun. He and the doctor had both come round to the front of the house. He turned, big and bold-shining in the moonlight. "I've been imagining-dreadful things-all day. When this business was far off, I laughed at it. Now that it's here… well, old Mr. Timothy Starberth…"
Something was worrying the good rector's Eton conscience. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. He added: