Shaking hands with them both, I bade them good-bye, and went out through the gate.
But I was not to escape without an interview with my clerical friend after all. As I left the grounds and turned into the public road I saw a man emerge from a little wicket gate some fifty yards or so further down the hedge. From the way he made his appearance, it was obvious he had been waiting for me to leave the house.
It was, certainly enough, my old friend Baxter. As I came up with him he said, with the same sanctimonious grin that usually encircled his mouth playing round it now:
"A nice evening for a stroll, Mr. Hatteras."
"A very nice evening, as you say, Mr. Baxter."
"May I intrude myself upon your privacy for five minutes?"
"With pleasure. What is your business?"
"Of small concern to you, sir, but of immense importance to me. Mr. Hatteras, I have it in my mind that you do not like me."
"I hope I have not given you cause to think so. Pray what can have put such a notion into your head?"
I half hoped that he would make some allusion to the telegram he had despatched for me that morning, but he was far too cunning for that. He looked me over and over out of his small ferrety eyes before he replied: