But, whatever his design, it received a sudden check. The rectory was closed! The front of the house stood up dark and shapeless as the great church which towered in front of it. The servants had gone to bed, and, as they slept at the back, he would have found it difficult to arouse them, had it suited his plans to do so. As it was, he did not dream of such a thing, and with a slight shiver—for the night was cold, and now that his project no longer excited him he felt it so, and felt too the influence of the night wind soughing in sad fashion through the yews—he was turning away, when something arrested his attention, and he paused.
The something he had seen, or fancied he had seen, was a momentary glimmer of light shining through the fanlight over the door. It could not affect him, for, if the servants had really closed the house for the night, even if they had not all gone to bed, he could scarcely go in. And yet some impulse led him to step softly into the porch and grope for the knocker.
His hand lit instead on the iron-studded surface of the old oak door, and, to his surprise, he felt it move slightly under his touch. He pushed, and the door slid slowly and silently open, disclosing the dusky outline of the hall, faintly illuminated by a thin shaft of light which proceeded apparently from the study, the door of which was a trifle ajar.
The sight recalled to the curate’s mind the errand on which he had come, and he stole across the hall on tiptoe, listening with all his ears. He heard nothing, however, and presently he stood on the mat at the study door intercepting the light. Then he did hear the dull footsteps of some one moving in the room, and suddenly it occurred to him that the rector had stepped home to fetch something—a song, music, or a book possibly—and was now within searching for it. That would explain all.
The curate was seized with panic at the thought, and, fearful of being discovered in his present position—for though he might have done all he had done in perfect innocence, conscience made a coward of him—he crept across the hall again and passed out into the churchyard. There he stood in the darkness, waiting and watching, expecting the rector to bustle out each minute.
But five minutes passed, and even ten, as it seemed to the curate in his impatience, and no one came out, nor did the situation alter. Then he made up his mind that the person moving in the study could not be the owner of the house, and he went in again and, crossing the hall, flung the study door wide open and entered.
There was a ringing sound as of coins falling on the floor, and a man who had been kneeling low over something sprang to his feet and gazed with wide, horror-stricken eyes at the intruder. A moment only the man looked, and then he fell again on his knees. “Oh, mercy! mercy!” he cried, almost grovelling before the curate. “Don’t give me up! I have never been took! I have never been in jail or in trouble in my life! I did not know what I was doing, sir! I swear I did not! Don’t give me up!”
This cry, which was low and yet piercing, ended in hysterical sobbing. On the table by his side stood a single candle, and by its light Clode saw that the little cupboard among the books was open. The curate started at the sight, and the words which he had been about to utter to the shrinking wretch begging for mercy on the floor before him died away in his husky throat. His eyes, however, burned with a gloomy rage, and when he recovered himself his voice was pitiless. “You scoundrel!” he said, in the low rich tone which had been so much admired in the church when he first came to Claversham, “what are you doing here? Get up and speak!” And he made as if he would spurn the creature with his foot.
“I am a respectable man,” the rogue whined. “I am—that is I was, I mean, sir—don’t be hard on me—Lord Dynmore’s own valet. I will tell you all, sir.”
“I know you!” rejoined Clode, looking harshly at him. “You were here this morning. And Mr. Lindo gave you money.”