The man’s whole attitude was nervous and queer. I recalled what Haydock had said about his illness. There, I supposed, lay the explanation.
He took his leave unwillingly, as though he had more to say, and didn’t know how to say it.
Before he left, I arranged with him to take the service for the Mother’s Union, followed by the meeting of District Visitors. I had several projects of my own for the afternoon.
Dismissing Hawes and his troubles from my mind I started off for Mrs. Lestrange.
On the table in the hall lay the Guardian and the Church Times unopened.
As I walked, I remembered that Mrs. Lestrange had had an interview with Colonel Protheroe the night before his death. It was possible that something had transpired in that interview which would throw light upon the problem of his murder.
I was shown straight into the little drawing-room, and Mrs. Lestrange rose to meet me. I was struck anew by the marvellous atmosphere that this woman could create. She wore a dress of some dead black material that showed off the extraordinary fairness of her skin. There was something curiously dead about her face. Only the eyes were burningly alive. There was a watchful look in them today. Otherwise she showed no signs of animation.
“It was very good of you to come, Mr. Clement,” she said, as she shook hands. “I wanted to speak to you the other day. Then I decided not to do so. I was wrong.”
“As I told you then, I shall be glad to do anything that can help you.”