Of the morning’s interview with the parson a word or two must be said. It occurred at eight o’clock, in the same room—a little back study on the ground floor. Of the two breakfasts that the parson had laid with his own hands, one—his own—was untouched. The study was but four strides long, and the parson walked and turned, and walked again. His big guest leaned forward in a chair, watching him, and flipping the fingers of his right hand against the knuckles of his left. There were signs that the parson had not slept.
Suddenly he stopped in his walk, and smiled faintly.
“No, I am not one whit nearer to it, Monjoy,” he said.
Monjoy hoisted his shoulders; it was not for him to speak.
“And for what your wife said,” the parson continued, “you will understand that I hardly feel at liberty to repeat the whole of it.”
“No, no; Cis would be wrought up; leave her out, poor lass.”
“That, of course,” said the parson with a nod; “but I was thinking more particularly of what she said of you, not of herself. Hm!... You’ll observe that during our talk I’ve made no attempt to—let us say, improve the occasion.”
This time Monjoy nodded.
“I mustn’t say it’s more than I should have expected, for I know so few of your calling,” he replied. “And I don’t know what Cicely said neither. But I myself can say this, that with hands and heart a little less clean I could have been safe away in Liverpool by this. Yes, since last Thursday, too. Don’t think I’m careless or swaggering; I know just what danger I’m in, and from both sides; let me tell you.”
Briefly and honestly he told the parson of the lot-drawing in the loom-loft and of his own share therein.