mmonsense
point of view, Cargrim's theory, knowing what he did know, was feasible
enough.

Having thus arrived at a point where it was necessary to transmute
thought into action, Mr Cargrim assumed his best clerical uniform, his
tallest and whitest jam-pot collar, and drew on a pair of delicate
lavender gloves. Spotless and neat and eminently sanctimonious, the
chaplain took his demure way towards Mrs Pansey's residence, as he
judged very rightly that she would be the most likely person to afford
him possible information. The archdeacon's widow lived on the outskirts
of Beorminster, in a gloomy old barrack of a mansion, surrounded by a
large garden, which in its turn was girdled by a high red brick wall
with broken glass bottles on the top, as though Mrs Pansey dwelt in a
gaol, and was on no account to be allowed out. Had such a thing been
possible, the whole of Beorminster humanity, rich and poor, would
willingly have subscribed large sums to build the wall higher, and to
add spikes to the glass bottles. Anything to keep Mrs Pansey in her
gaol, and prevent her issuing forth as a social scourge.

Into the gaol Mr Cargrim was admitted with certain solemnity by a
sour-faced footman whose milk of human kindness had turned acid in the
thunderstorms of Mrs Pansey's spite. This engaging Cerberus conducted
the chaplain into a large and sepulchral drawing-room in which the good
lady and Miss Norsham were partaking of afternoon tea. Mrs Pansey wore
her customary skirts of solemn black, and looked more gloomy than ever;
but Daisy, the elderly sylph, brightened the room with a dress of white
muslin adorned with many little bows of white ribbon, so
that--sartorially speaking--she was very young, and very virginal, and
quite angelical in looks. Both ladies were pleased to see their visitor
and received him warmly in their several ways; that is, Mrs Pansey
groaned and Daisy giggled.

'Oh, how very nice of you to call, dear Mr Cargrim,' said the sylph.
'Mrs Pansey and I are positively dying to hear all about this very
dreadful inquest. Tea?'

'Thank you; no sugar. Ah!' sighed Mr Cargrim, taking his cup, 'it is a
terrible thing to think that an inquest should be held in Beorminster on
the slaughtered body of a human being. Bread and butter! thank you!'

'It's a judgment,' declared Mrs Pansey, and devoured a buttery little
square of toast with another groan louder than the first.

'Oh, do tell me who killed the poor thing, Mr Car