“The dickens you did!” slipped from the rector. It was difficult for him not to believe that his arrival had been the last thing expected.
“Yes,” returned the curate, with a little snap of defiance. He was recovering himself, and could look the other in the face now. “But I am glad you did not come before, all the same.”
“Why?”
“I will explain.”
The light which the one candle gave was not so meagre that Clode’s embarrassment had altogether escaped Lindo; and had the latter been a suspicious man he might have had queer thoughts, and possibly expressed them. As it was, he was only puzzled, and when the curate said he would explain, answered simply, “Do.”
“The truth is,” said Stephen Clode, beginning with an effort, “I have taken a good deal on myself, and I am afraid you will blame me, Mr. Lindo. If so, I cannot help it.” His face flushed, and he beat a tattoo on the table with his fingers. “I came across,” he continued, “to borrow a book a little before ten. The lights here were out; but, to my surprise, your house-door was open.”
“As I found it myself!” the rector exclaimed.
“Precisely. Naturally I had misgivings, and I looked into the hall. I saw a streak of light proceeding from the doorway of this room, and I came in softly to see what it meant. I heard a man moving about in here, and I threw open the door much as you did.”
“Did you?” said Lindo eagerly. “And who was it—the man, I mean?”
“That is just what I cannot tell you,” replied the curate. His face was pale, but there was a smile upon it, and he met the other’s gaze without flinching. He had settled his plan now.