He poked the fire into a brighter blaze, and drew forward a
capacious leather chair. "Sit down and light up. We'll have some coffee
presently--I know you don't care for anything stronger."

"Thanks, Anstice." Mr. Carey sank down into the big chair and held his
transparent-looking hands to the flames. "It is a bad night, as you say,
and this fire is uncommonly cosy."

Fraser Carey was a man of middle age who, through constitutional
delicacy, looked older than his years. His features, well-cut in
themselves, were marred by the excessive thinness and pallor of his
face; and his eyes, beneath their heavy lids, told a story of unrestful
nights spent in wrestling with some mental or physical pain which
forbade the refreshment of sleep. He had never consulted Anstice
professionally, though he had called upon his services on behalf of a
little niece who sometimes visited him; and Anstice wondered now and
then what scruple it was which prevented his friend making use of such
skill as he might reasonably claim to possess.

To-night Carey looked even more tired, more fragile than ever; and
Anstice refrained from speech until he had poured out two cups of
deliciously fragrant coffee and had seen that Carey's pipe was in full
blast.

Then: "It is quite a time since you dropped in for a chat," he said
cheerfully. "Yet this isn't a specially busy season of the year for you
parsons, is it? _We_ are run off our legs with influenza and all the
rest of it, thanks to the weather, but you----"

"We parsons are generally busy, you know," returned Carey with a smile.
"Human nature being what it is there is no close-time for sin--nor for
goodness either, God be thanked," he added hastily.

"I suppose not." Having satisfactorily loaded his pipe Anstice lay back
and puffed luxuriously. "In any case I'm glad you've found time to drop
in. By the way, there is a woman down in Blue Row about whom I wanted to
see you. I think you know the family--the man is a blacksmith, Richards
by name."

He outlined the needs of the case, and Carey took a few notes in the
little book he carried for the purpose. After that the conversation
ranged desultorily over various local matters mildly interesting to
both; and then there fell a sudden pause which Anstice at least felt to
be significant.

It was broken, abruptly, by the clergyman, who sat upright in his chair,
and, laying his empty pipe down on the table, turned to face his host
more fully.

"Anst