I hurried down the village street. It was eleven o’clock, and at eleven o’clock on a Sunday night the whole village of St. Mary Mead might be dead. I saw, however, a light in a first floor window as I passed, and, realizing that Hawes was still up, I stopped and rang the door bell.
After what seemed a long time, Hawes’s landlady, Mrs. Sadler, laboriously unfastened two bolts, a chain, and turned a key and peered out at me suspiciously.
“Why, it’s Vicar!” she exclaimed.
“Good evening.” I said. “I want to see Mr. Hawes. I see there’s a light in the window, so he’s up still.”
“That may be. I’ve not seen him since I took up his supper. He’s had a quiet evening—no one to see him, and he’s not been out.”
I nodded, and passing her, went quickly up the stairs. Hawes has a bedroom and sitting-room on the first floor.
I passed into the latter. Hawes was lying back in a long chair asleep. My entrance did not wake him. An empty cachet box and a glass of water, half-full, stood beside him.
On the floor, by his left foot, was a crumpled sheet of paper with writing on it. I picked it up and straightened it out.
It began: “ My dear Clement— ”
I read it through, uttered an exclamation and shoved it into my pocket. Then I bent over Hawes and studied him attentively.