He gripped his knees and turned to look at me again. For half a minute, perhaps, he stared silently.
“I was walking through the roads to clear my brain,” he said. “And suddenly—fire, earthquake, death!”
He relapsed into silence, with his chin now sunken almost to his knees.
Presently he began waving his hand.
“All the work—all the Sunday schools—What have we done—what has Weybridge done? Everything gone—everything destroyed. The church! We rebuilt it only three years ago. Gone! Swept out of existence! Why?”
Another pause, and he broke out again like one demented.
“The smoke of her burning goeth up for ever and ever!” he shouted.
His eyes flamed, and he pointed a lean finger in the direction of Weybridge.
By this time I was beginning to take his measure. The tremendous tragedy in which he had been involved—it was evident he was a fugitive from Weybridge—had driven him to the very verge of his reason.
“Are we far from Sunbury?” I said, in a matter-of-fact tone.