“Supper?” he said. “I was forgetting, Robert. Yes, you can lock up.”
Then he took his soft hat from its peg, and wishing his sexton good-evening stepped forth into the night.
Robert looked after him thoughtfully before turning the key in the lock.
“Seems to ’ave somethin’ on ’is mind,” he mused. “Reckon ’is missis is as aggravating as most.”
With which he turned the key in the rusty lock viciously, and extinguished the lights and left.
The Rev. Walter Errol on entering the vicarage drawing-room found John Musgrave already there, talking with his wife. Mrs Errol, a pretty, delicate looking woman, who, while she made an excellent wife and mother, was none the less a dead failure in the parish, according to the opinion of the local helpers, looked round brightly as her husband entered the room, and remarked:
“Mr Musgrave has just been telling me that some friends of his—”
“Acquaintances,” John Musgrave interposed gravely.
“Some people he knows,” Mrs Errol substituted, “have taken the Hall. I’m so glad. It is such a pity to have a place like that standing empty.”
The vicar looked pleased.