“Never mind,” she replied. “He—he doesn’t know my name.” Then the verger went out.
While she was uttering these words the curate’s visitor—a tall, military-looking old gentleman—emerged from the vestry, leaving the door ajar.
Dolly pushed the door open and walked in, closing the door after her.
Holt was still in his surplice, standing beside the small writing-table.
He looked up as the intruder entered. The colour left his face, and he drew back in dismay when he recognised her.
“You!” he stammered. “I—I did not know you were here!”
“Yes,” replied she sternly. “I’m not a welcome visitor, am I? Nevertheless, now I’ve found you, we have an account to settle.”
He did not reply; but, the subject being distasteful to him, he walked quickly round the table and opened the door, which led into the church. She saw that his intention was to escape.
“Shut that door, if you don’t wish our conversation to be overheard,” she said, pale and determined. “Remember, you are in my hands, my reverend murderer!”
Starting at the word “murderer,” he closed the door slowly, and stood with his back against it, and head bowed before her.