I got back to the Boar in time for a cold breakfast. None of the others
was there. I ate with my antiquarian notes on Wolverhampton propped
against the coffee pot. I was determined that Mr. Kent should find me as
intelligent as possible.
There was nothing to be done before lunch time. I read Mr. Kent's letter
over several times, and I must confess that the mention of that other
wire from Joe worried me a good deal. Just how far the telegram I had
just sent might conflict with the facts as known to the Kents, I could
not surmise. I could only trust to luck and pray for the best. I learned
from the chambermaid that the Goblin had come in very late the night
before, and had gone out at six A.M. That bothered me almost more than
anything else.
Finally, after hanging round the empty coffee-room for a while, I got
nervous, and determined to go to morning service at St. Philip's. There
would be plenty of time to get out to Bancroft Road afterward, and
perhaps Kathleen would be at church and I could get a distant view of
her. I walked round to the church. Service had begun, but I went in
and sat down at the back. During a hymn I took a good look round. To
my horror I saw in a pew a few feet in front of me a young person whose
robust outline seemed familiar. I looked again. It was Falstaff Carter
in the get-up of a curate. Trembling with indignation, I crept out of
the church. I hardly dared speculate on what low device he had planned
for winning his way into the sanctum.
At any rate, I thought, I am fixed for lunch: once I get there, I
guess I can gain ground as fast as any pseudo-curate. I ran over my
antiquarian data another time.
It was half-past twelve, and I was just brushing my hair for the third
time, preparatory to starting for Bancroft Road, when the chambermaid
came to the bedroom door. “This note was just left for you, sir.” I tore
it open.