The Rectory lay at the further extremity of the village, which was long
and straggling. The village street, still bathed in sun, was full of
groups of holiday makers, idling and courting. To avoid them, Buntingford
stepped into one of his own plantations, in which there was a path
leading straight to the back of the Rectory.
He walked like one half-stunned, with very little conscious thought. As
to the blow which had now fallen, he had lived under the possibility of
it for fourteen years. Only since the end of the war had he begun to
feel some security, and in consequence to realize a new ferment in
himself. Well--now at least he would _know_. And the hunger to know
winged his feet.
He found a gate leading into the garden of the Rectory open, and went
through it towards the front of the house. A figure in grey flannels,
with a round collar, was pacing up and down the little grass-plot there,
waiting for him.
John Alcott came forward at sight of him. He took Buntingford's hand in
both his own, and looked into his face. "Is it true?" he said, gently.
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