And it seemed that his courage, so lamentably shaken, began to return to him.  He felt more himself.  He marched off to a post office, and sent his telegram to Mavis:  “Evening paper says fatal accident to Mr. Barradine.  Is this true?” The main purpose of the telegram was to prove that here he was in London, where he had been last Friday, and where he had remained during all the intervening time; its secondary purpose was to put on record at the earliest possible moment his surprise—­surprise so complete that he could scarcely believe the sad news.  He gave his utmost care to the wording of the telegram and was satisfied with the result.  The turn of words seemed perfectly natural.

Then, having despatched his telegram, he hurried off to call at Mr. Barradine’s house in Grosvenor Place—­to make some anxious inquiries.

There were people at the door, ladies and gentlemen among them, and the servants looked white and agitated as they answered questions.  Dale pushed his way up the steps almost into the hall, acting consternation and grief—­the honest, rather rough country fellow, the loyal dependent who forgets his good manners in his sorrow at the death of the chieftain.  He would not 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.