“What would you have, Mrs. Baker?” he asked, laughing. “The bishop’s palace?”
“We may come to that in time, sir,” she answered, folding her arms demurely. “But I do not know that I would wish it! He has a peck of troubles now, and there would be more in a palace, I doubt.”
“I agree with you,” Jack replied, laughing. “Troubles come thick about an apron, Mrs. Baker.”
“Ay, the men see to that!” retorted the good lady, getting the last word and going away delighted.
Left alone, Jack lay back in an arm-chair, and, nursing his hat, wondered what Mrs. Baker would say when she discovered his connection with the Bonamys. He had not been seated in this posture two minutes before he heard the door of the house open and shut, and a man’s tread cross the hall. The next moment the study door opened, and a tall man appeared at it, and stood holding it and looking into the room. The hall lamp was behind the newcomer, and Jack, seeing that he was not the rector, sat still.
The stranger, satisfied apparently that the room was empty, stepped in and closed the door behind him; and, rapidly crossing the floor, stood before one of the bookcases. He took something—a key Jack judged by what followed—from his pocket, and with it he swiftly threw open a cupboard among the books.
There was nothing remarkable in the action; but the stranger’s manner was hurried and nervous, and the looker-on leaned forward, curious to learn what he was about. He expected to see him take something from the cupboard. Instead, the man appeared to put something in. What it was, however, Jack could not discern, for, leaning forward too far in his anxiety to do so, he upset his hat with some noise on to the floor.
The man turned on the instant as if he had been subjected to a galvanic shock, and stood gazing in the direction of the sound. Jack heard him draw in his breath with the sharp sound of sudden fear, and even by that light could see that his face was drawn and white. The barrister rose quietly in the gloom, the stranger at sight of him leaning back against the book-case as if his legs refused to support him. Yet he was the first to speak. “Who is there?” he said, almost in a whisper.
“A visitor,” Jack answered simply. “I have been waiting to see Mr. Lindo.”
The curate—for he it was—drew a long breath, apparently of relief, and in reality of such heartfelt thankfulness as he had never known before. “What a start you gave me!” he murmured, his voice as yet scarcely under his control. “I am Mr. Clode, Mr. Lindo’s curate. I was putting up some parish papers, and thought the room was empty.”