It was nearer seven than half-past six when I approached the Vicarage gate on my return. Before I reached it, it swung open and Lawrence Redding came out. He stopped dead on seeing me, and I was immediately struck by his appearance. He looked like a man who was on the point of going mad. His eyes stared in a peculiar manner, he was deathly white, and he was shaking and twitching all over.
I wondered for a moment whether he could have been drinking, but repudiated the idea immediately.
“Hullo,” I said, “have you been to see me again? Sorry I was out. Come back now. I’ve got to see Protheroe about some accounts—but I dare say we shan’t be long.”
“Protheroe,” he said. He began to laugh. “Protheroe? You’re going to see Protheroe? Oh! you’ll see Protheroe all right. Oh! my God—yes!”
I stared. Instinctively I stretched out a hand towards him. He drew sharply aside.
“No,” he almost cried out. “I’ve got to get away—to think. I’ve got to think. I must think.”
He broke into a run and vanished rapidly down the road towards the village, leaving me staring after him, my first idea of drunkenness recurring.
Finally I shook my head, and went on to the Vicarage. The front door is always left open, but nevertheless I rang the bell. Mary came, wiping her hands on her apron.
“So you’re back at last,” she observed.