“You would recognise the girl again, Roddy?” asked his father, puffing at his pipe.
“Recognise her! Of course I should. I’d know her anywhere!” And once again he went into a long and detailed description of her face, her eyes, her hair, and her dress.
The short December afternoon was drawing in and the light was fading.
“I think, Roddy, that if I were you I’d go and lie down,” said his father softly. “Your poor head worries you—I know, my dear boy.”
“It does. But I can think now—think quite clearly,” was the young man’s reply. “At the hospital the matron regarded me as a half-dazed idiot, I believe, and the nurse listened to me as she might listen to a baby’s babbling. But I tell you, father, I’m now perfectly in my right mind. You may believe, or you may disbelieve my story, but Roddy, your son, has told you the truth, and he repeats every word he has said.”
For a few moments the rector was silent, his pipe still in his mouth and his hands in the pockets of the easy old black jacket he wore in the house. He was not a man who made any outward show, and, like most scholars, cared little for dress now that, alas! his wife, who had looked after him so tenderly, was dead. Old Norton Homfray was of simple tastes and few wants. His whole soul was in the welfare of his parish, and in consequence the parish held him up as a real fine old fellow.
“Well, Roddy, what you’ve told me is, of course, most astounding—almost incredible. On that night you walked home with Miss Sandys—eh? She came here and told me so herself.”
“She came here! Elma here!” cried Roddy, quickly stirring himself from his chair and becoming alert. “What did she say?”
“She heard that you were missing, and she came to tell me of her walk home to the Towers with you.”
“Yes. And—and what did she say about me?” the young man asked with quick eagerness.