The
rain held off, although now and then a few heavy drops fell ominously.
It was quite dark--a premature darkness caused by the clouds that hung
right across the sky. There seemed to be nobody on the move but
himself; the street at Rodchurch was absolutely empty, the
tobacconist's shop at the corner being alone awake and feebly busy,
the oil lamps flickering in the puffs of a warm spring wind.
He took one glance toward the post office, and then went right down
the street and out upon the common. The house that he was seeking
stood a little way off the road, and a broad beam of light from an
open window proved of assistance as he crossed the broken and uneven
ground. While he groped for the bell handle inside the dark porch he
could hear, close at hand, a purring and whirring sound of wheels that
he recognized as the unmistakable noise made by a carpenter's lathe.
As soon as he rang the bell the lathe stopped working, and next moment
the Baptist pastor came to the door.
"Mr. Dale--is it not?
"Yes--good evening, Mr. Osborn."
"Pray come in."
"Thank you. Could you spare time for a chat?"
"Surely. I was expecting you."
Dale drew back, and spoke coldly, almost rudely.
"Indeed? I am not aware of any reason for your doing so.
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