‘I said thou wast one o’ the devil’s brood wi’ thy black clothes,’ replied a sturdy ringer, who had not spoken before.
‘No, the truth is,’ said the thin man, retracting at this horrible translation, ‘I came for a walk because it is a fine evening.’
‘Now let’s be off, neighbours,’ the clerk interrupted.
The candle was inverted in the socket, and the whole party stepped out into the churchyard. The moon was shining within a day or two of full, and just overlooked the three or four vast yews that stood on the south-east side of the church, and rose in unvaried and flat darkness against the illuminated atmosphere behind them.
‘Good-night,’ the clerk said to his comrades, when the door was locked. ‘My nearest way is through the park.’
‘I suppose mine is too?’ said the stranger. ‘I am going to the railway-station.’
‘Of course—come on.’
The two men went over a stile to the west, the remainder of the party going into the road on the opposite side.
‘And so the romance has ended well,’ the clerk’s companion remarked, as they brushed along through the grass. ‘But what is the truth of the story about the property?’
‘Now look here, neighbour,’ said Clerk Crickett, ‘if so be you’ll tell me what your line o’ life is, and your purpose in comen here to-day, I’ll tell you the truth about the wedden particulars.’