t go away, when the other callers
had departed. He told the butler of the services rendered to him by
Mr. Barradine. "Not more'n ten days ago."

"Don't you remember me? I came here to thank him for his kindness."

"Ah, yes," said the agitated butler, "he was a kind gentleman, and no
mistake."

"_Kind!_ I should think he was. Well, well!" And Dale stood nodding
his head dolefully. Then he went away slowly and sadly, and he kept on
nodding his head in the same doleful manner long after the door was
shut--just on the chance that the servants might look out of the hail
windows and see it before he vanished round the corner.

He could think now, as well as he had ever done. It was of prime
importance that no outsiders should ever learn that Everard Barradine
had injured him. This guided him henceforth. It settled the course of
his life there and then. He must return to Mavis; he must by his
demeanor cover the intrigue--or so act that if people came to know of
it, they would suppose either that he was ignorant of his shame or
that he was a complaisant husband, taking advantage of the situation
and pocketing all gifts from his wife's protector. 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. The plan had been sound enough:
it was the accomplishment of the plan that