Twenty-eight
I hurried down the village street. It was eleven o’clock, and at eleven o’clock on a Sunday night the whole village ofSt. Mary Mead¹ might be dead. I saw, however, a light in a first floor window as I passed, and, realizing that Haweswas still up, I stopped and rang the doorbell.
After what seemed a long time, Hawes’s landlady², Mrs. Sadler, laboriously³ unfastened two bolts, a chain, andturned a key and peered out at me suspiciously.
“Why, it’s Vicar!” she exclaimed.
“Good evening,” I said. “I want to see Mr. Hawes. I see there’s a light in the window, so he’s up still.”
“That may be. I’ve not seen him since I took up his supper. He’s had a quiet evening—no one to see him, and he’snot been out.”
I nodded, and passing her, went quickly up the stairs. Hawes has a bedroom and sitting room on the first floor.
I passed into the latter. Hawes was lying back in a long chair asleep. My entrance did not wake him. An emptycachet box and a glass of water, half full, stood beside him.
On the floor, by his left foot, was a crumpled⁴ sheet of paper with writing on it. I picked it up and straightened it out.
It began: “My dear Clement—”
I read it through, uttered an exclamation⁵ and shoved it into my pocket. Then I bent⁶ over Hawes and studied himattentively.
Next, reaching for the telephone which stood by his elbow, I gave the number of the Vicarage. Melchett must havebeen still trying to trace the call, for I was told that the number was engaged. Asking them to call me, I put theinstrument down again.
I put my hand into my pocket to look at the paper I had picked up once more. With it, I drew out the note that I hadfound in the letter box and which was still unopened.
Its appearance was horribly familiar. It was the same handwriting as the anonymous⁷ letter that had come thatafternoon.

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