“No, I didn’t hear. Influenza?”
“Pneumonia, and that ties the Archdeacon.”
“What a providential thing! But you said ‘we.’ Is Thormanby here?”
“No, Thormanby told me yesterday that he’d washed his hands of the whole affair.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve done,” I said. “It’s by far the most sensible thing to do. I wonder you didn’t.”
“I tried to,” said the Canon piteously. “I did my best. I have engaged a berth on a steamer going to Brazil, one that hasn’t got a wireless telegraphic installation, and I’ve secured a locum tenens for the parish. But I shan’t be able to go. You can guess why.”
“The Archdeacon?”
The Canon nodded sadly. I did not care to make more inquiries about the Archdeacon.
“Well,” I said, “if neither he nor Thormanby is with you, who is?”
“Miss Battersby for one. She volunteered.”