“You cannot do it at all, Mr. Huntley. Things must remain as they are.”
“Why?”
“I cannot explain why. I can only repeat it.”
“There is some strange mystery attaching to this.”
Arthur did not gainsay it.
“Arthur, if I am to allow the affair to rest as I find it, you must at least give me a reason why I may not act. What is it?”
“Because the investigation could only cause tenfold deeper trouble. You are very good to think of helping me, Mr. Huntley, but I must fight my own battle. Others must be quiet in this matter—for all our sakes.”
Mr. Huntley gazed after Arthur as he moved away. Constance first! Arthur next! What could be the meaning of it all? Where did the mystery lie? A resolution grew up in Mr. Huntley’s heart that he would fathom it, for private reasons of his own; and, in the impulse of the moment, he bent his steps there and then, towards the police-station, and demanded an interview with Roland Yorke’s bête noire, Mr. Butterby.
But the cathedral is not quite done with for the afternoon.
Upon the conclusion of service, the dean lingered a few minutes in the nave, speaking to one of the vergers. When he turned to continue his way, he encountered the Rev. Mr. Pye, who had been taking off his surplice in the vestry. The choristers had been taking off their surplices also, and were now trooping through the cloisters back to the schoolroom, not more gently than usual. The dean saluted Mr. Pye, and they walked out together.