There was no light in the small upper room where Collins sat like a sphinx. Sinclair was glowering in the arm-chair, his face slightly grey, and a worried look in his eyes.
The hillside was getting dark, and the church on the top stood out black against the western sky. A straggling group of people were coming down the steep path. There had been a service in the tiny chancel, and curiosity had drawn visitors to attend.
Perhaps a dozen or so were descending the steep pathway.
Collins gave a slight movement, and drew in his breath quickly.
“At last!” he said, almost involuntarily.
He sprang to his feet, and took his mackintosh from a chair.
Sinclair got up, too. “Well?” he said.
Collins laughed. “Come on then. I see you want to be in at the death.”
Without a word Sinclair put on his coat, and followed.
At the point where the steep path wound upwards there was a lych-gate. Here in the shadow they waited while the rain dripped off the tiled roof. The people had passed, and a solitary figure was approaching in the gathering gloom.