“And those, I suppose, are at Evensong, not at Mattins?”
Reeves frowned slightly. This effort to introduce the significant words seemed to him painfully forced, and at the same time quite useless. It was not likely that Marryatt would connect the words on the “washing-list” with the cipher he had inadvertently sent to Brotherhood on the same sheet of paper.
“No, not at Mattins. The Te Deum, I am afraid, exercises the capacities of my choir to their full limit.”
“You just have them on big days, I suppose, like Harvest Festivals?”
“That kind of thing. Really, Gordon, you seem very ecclesiastical this evening. Were you going to offer to sing in the choir or anything?”
“No, my boy, not till you get some more comfortable hassocks.”
“As a matter of fact, I have ordered some only lately. I have to go up to London to-morrow to see about them.”
Reeves’ blood thrilled. Only a tiny corroboration, and yet enough to give him more confidence in his diagnosis of the “washing-list.” Only lately Marryatt had been ordering new hassocks—it all fitted in.
“I congratulate you, Marryatt,” said Carmichael. “At the funeral the other day, I am afraid I found myself chiefly thinking about the unpleasantness of the kneeling accommodation, instead of the virtues of the deceased. By the way, have you declared a truce in the controversy with Brotherhood, now that he is no longer capable of replying?”
“I am afraid I continued the course this evening. I could not very well leave it where I had left off last Sunday. I had to meet, you see, his views about immortality.”