“I do not, indeed. No. Only I think perhaps that you should have retained the right to tell me.”
“I should have done so,” said the curate regretfully.
“He has taken nothing, I suppose?” the rector continued, turning to the cupboard, and, not only satisfied with the explanation, but liking Clode better than he had liked him before.
“No,” the other answered. “I was putting things straight when you entered and startled me. He had dropped the money about the floor, but you will find it right, I think. He has made a mess among the papers, I fear, and damaged the cupboard door in forcing it, but that is the extent of the mischief. By the way,” the curate added, “I have a key to this cupboard at my lodgings. Williams gave it to me. He only kept parish matters here. I must let you have it.”
“Right,” said the rector carelessly; and, a few more words having passed between them as to the attempted robbery, and the manner in which the outer door had been opened, the curate took his hat and prepared to go. “You had a pleasant party, I suppose?” he said, pausing and turning when halfway across the hall.
“A very pleasant one,” Lindo answered with enthusiasm.
“They are nice people,” said Clode smoothly.
“They are—very nice. You told me I should find them so, and you were right. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Such harmless words! And yet they roused the curate’s jealousy anew. As he walked home, the church clock tolling midnight above his head, he drank in no peaceful influence from the dark stillness or the solemn sound. He was gnawed by fresh hatred of the man who had surprised and confounded him, and forced him to lie and quibble in order to escape from a dishonorable position. If you would make a man your enemy come upon him when he is doing something of which he is ashamed. He will fear you afterward, but he will hate you more. In the curate’s case it was only he who knew himself discovered, so that he had no ground for fear. But he hated none the less vigorously.