There were voices in the passageway without, a woman saying in a German accent,—“It is here, sir.”
There was a knock at the door....
CHAPTER XI. THE LOST PARISHIONER
I
Hodder opened the door. In the dingy passageway he perceived a tall figure which immediately turned out to be that of an old gentleman. In spite of the heat, he wore a long coat and an old-fashioned, high collar, a black tie, under which was exposed a triangle of immaculate, pleated linen. In one hand he held a gold-headed stick, a large tall hat of which the silk nap was a little rubbed, a string sustaining a parcel, the brown paper wrapping of which was soaked: in the other, a manila bag containing lemons.
His head was bent forward a little, the high dome of it was bald, but the white hair clustered thickly behind the temples. The face was clean-shaven, the cheeks touched with red, the nose high and dominating, distinctly philanthropic. And the blue eyes rested on the clergyman with a benevolence unfeigned.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the old gentleman said; “I am told Mrs. Garvin lives here.”
Before the rector could reply Mrs. Garvin herself stood between them.
“It's Mr. Bentley!” she exclaimed.