The judge's
temper was quite normal when he sat down at dinner. When, at Miss
King's request, he lit his cigar in the drawing-room afterwards, he
began to take a humorous view of the misfortunes of the morning.
"I ought to have accepted your invitation at once, Milly, and not
attempted to live at the local hotel. I never came across such a place
in my life, though I have knocked about a good deal and am pretty well
accustomed to roughing it. My bedroom reeked of abominable
disinfectants. The floor was half an inch deep in chloride of lime.
The sheets were soaked with-- By the way, what is the name of the
local parson?"
"I don't know," said Miss King. "He's an old man, and, I fancy,
delicate. I've never seen him. He wasn't in church last Sunday."
"Has he a curate?"
"Yes; I believe so. But the curate is away on his holiday.
Somebody--I forget who; very likely Callaghan the gardener--told me so.
At all events, I've not seen anything of him. But what do you want
with the local clergy?"
"I only want one of them," said the judge; "but I want him rather
badly. The man I mean can't be a Roman Catholic priest. He has a
bright red moustache.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314