I can
chew tobacco and swear with the best."

"You suhly are a wonder," said the old man admiringly. "How you fin' the
time I got no idee."

"Everything in its place, Berry, and everything in its time. I've got a
lot to do to-day, but it's in hand, and I don't have to fuss. You'll not
forget the wig--you'll bring it round yourself?"

"Suh. No snoopin' into the parcel then. But if you go to Manitou
to-night, how can you have that fiddler?"

"He comes at nine o'clock. I'll go to Manitou later. Everything in its
own time."

He was about to leave the shop when some one came bustling in. Berry was
between Ingolby and the door, and for an instant he did not see who it
was. Presently he heard an unctuous voice: "Ah, good day, good day, Mr.
Berry. I want to have my hair cut, if you please," it said.

Ingolby smiled. The luck was with him to-day so far. The voice belonged
to the Rev. Reuben Tripple, and he would be saved a journey to the
manse. Accidental meetings were better than planned interviews. Old
Berry's grizzled beard was bristling with repugnance, and he was about
to refuse Mr. Tripple the hospitality of the shears when Ingolby said:
"You won't mind my having a word with Mr. Tripple first, will you,
Berry? May we use your back parlour?"

A significant look from Ingolby's eyes gave Berry his cue.

"Suh, Mr. Ingolby. I'm proud." He opened the door of another room.

Mr. Tripple had not seen Ingolby when he entered, and he recognized him
now with a little shock of surprise. There was no reason why he should
not care to meet the Master Man, but he always had an uncanny feeling
when his eye met that of Ingolby. His apprehension had no foundation
in any knowledge, yet he had felt that Ingolby had no love for him, and
this disturbed the egregious vanity of a narrow nature. His slouching,
corpulent figure made an effort to resist the gesture with which
Ingolby drew him to the door, but his will succumbed, and he shuffled
importantly into the other room.

Ingolby shut the door quietly behind him, and motioned the minister to a
chair beside the table. Tripple sank down, mechanically smiling, placed
his hat on the floor, and rested his hands on the table. Ingolby could
not help but notice how coarse the hands were--with fingers suddenly
ending as though they had been cut off, and puffy, yellowish skin that
suggested fat foods, or worse.

Ingolby came to grips at once. "You preached a sermon last night which
no doubt