“Fact, sir. Some one as lives here at the rectory.”
“In the name of common sense, man,” cried the rector, angrily, “whom do you mean—me?”
“No, sir, that would be too bad,” said the constable.
“Whom, then?”
“Your pupil, sir, Mr Distin.”
Had a good solid Japanese earthquake suddenly shaken down all the walls of the rectory and left the Reverend Morton Syme seated in his easy chair unhurt and surrounded by débris and clouds of dust, he could not have looked more astonished. He stared at the constable, who stood before him, very stiff, much buttoned up and perfectly unmoved, as a man would stand who feels his position unassailable.
Then quietly and calmly taking out his gold-rimmed spring eye-glasses, the rector drew a white pocket-handkerchief from his breast, carefully polished each glass, put them on and stared frowningly at his visitor, who returned the look for a time, and then feeling his position irksome and that it called for a response, he coughed, saluted in military fashion and settled his neck inside his coat collar.
“You seem to be perfectly sober, Bates,” said the rector at last.
“Sober, sir?” said the man quickly. “Well, I think so, sir.”
“Then, my good man, you must be mad.”