No motive for the
crime. That was his guide-post.
In the night he got rid of the canvas suit and slouch hat. Next day he
went home to Rodchurch Post Office, and, speaking to Mavis of Mr.
Barradine's death, uttered that terrific blasphemy. "_It is the finger
of God._"
XXXI
He acted his part well, and everything worked out easily--more easily
than one could have dared to hope for.
Not a soul was thinking about him. He had to assert himself, thrust
himself forward, before people in the village would so much as notice
that he had come back among them again. The inquest, as he gathered,
was going to be a matter of form: it seemed doubtful if the
authorities would even make an examination of the ground over there.
All was to be as nice as nice for him.
Yet he was afraid. Fear possed him--this sneaking, torturing,
emasculating passion that he had never known hitherto was now always
with him. He lay alone in the camp-bedstead sweating and funking. The
events of the day made him seem safe, but he felt that he would not be
really safe for ages and ages. Throughout the night he was going over
the list of his idiotic mistakes, upbraiding himself, cursing himself
for a hundred acts of brainless folly.
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