He crossed the road and, halting, gazed through the railings out across the dark London park where in the distance the lights were twinkling among the bare branches. The night was cold, for a keen east wind had sprung up. He hesitated.
To remain the night in London would bring the truth no nearer, for with the gay party in progress he could not enter there in the clothes he wore. And besides, he had not yet met Elma’s father. He longed to go there and watch the movements of that dark, gorgeously-dressed woman who had exercised such a strangely evil influence over him while he was in the grip of that mysterious drug. Who was she? Why had she and her companion held him in their toils for days, and then cast him aside at that remote spot by the Thames, hoping that he would die during the night?
What did it all mean?
He glanced at his watch, and saw that if he took a taxi he might just catch the last train. And this he did.
It was long after midnight when he entered the silent old Rectory and found his father bent beneath the green-shaded reading-lamp which stood on the study table.
The rector had been busy writing for hours—ever since old Mrs Bentley had cleared away his supper and wished him good-night.
Roddy, throwing off his coat, sank wearily into the wicker arm-chair before the welcome fire and took out his pipe, his father continuing writing his next Sunday’s sermon after briefly greeting him.
As the young man smoked, he reflected, until at last he suddenly said:
“Haven’t you finished your work, father? It’s getting very late.”
“Just finished—just finished, my boy!” said the old man cheerily, screwing up his fountain-pen. “I’ve had a heavy day to-day—out visiting nearly all day. There’s a lot of sickness in the village, you know.”