Reeves drove away very thoughtful. Was it possible that the same enemy who had murdered her husband was on the widow’s track too? Or was she psychic, and did echoes of the dead man’s personality follow her? Certainly one might have expected Brotherhood to rest unquietly in his grave. His grave—would some fresh inspiration come to Reeves, perhaps, if he paid a visit to the grave in Paston Oatvile churchyard? He was half ashamed of the thought, and yet . . . it could do no harm. The evening was a fine one; there was no need to be back early at the dormy-house. Instead of taking the London road, which was the shortest way home, he struck out along the winding country lane that connected the two Pastons. In a few minutes he had drawn up at the lych-gate, and was finding his way among the grave-stones. The sudden gasp of a harmonium surprised him—of course, they were at evening service. What was that tune? “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” wasn’t it? He went up to the porch; it is an almost irresistible temptation to listen when sound comes out from a building into the open. . . . Yes, that was the hymn, most rustically sung by a congregation that sounded chiefly female, but with the one inevitable male voice dominating all, very loud and tuneless. Here in the porch you got a sort of quintessential effect of Sunday evening service in a country church: the smell of oil lamps, a glimpse of ugly deal pews, Sunday clothes, tablets on the wall in memory of dead virtues and hypocrisies. Yes, it was finishing now: So with my waking thoughts Bright with Thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Beth-hel I’ll rai-haise. So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nea-rer-er to Thee—— and then the penetrating Amen for which the best efforts of the singers seemed to have been reserved. There was a rustle and a shuffling as the erect forms became sedentary, and then, with sudden clearness, Marryatt’s voice giving out the text.