I happen to know."

"We all have, Matters. . . . Well, I have what I came for, and will be
driving back to Culvercoombe with it. So good day, and thank you!"

"I thank _you_, sir."

Mr. Matters bowed.

Parson Chichester turned Archdeacon, and put him at his best trotting
speed--by a single hint from the reins, no whip needed. This time he
had to descend and open the lodge gates for himself. A mile and a half
beyond them the road crossed one of the many high brows of the moor, and
here on the rise he discerned a black-habited figure trudging along the
road ahead.

He recognised the stranger at once, and reined up as he overtook him.

"Good day again, sir! Can I offer you a lift?"

"I thank you," said the stranger. "I am bound for a place called
Culvercoombe."

"Why, and so am I! So you must give me the pleasure."

"You are exceedingly kind."

He clambered up, not very skilfully, and the dog-cart bowled on again.

For a while the two kept silence. Then Parson Chichester made an
opening--

"You don't belong to these parts?" he asked.

"No. . . . Pardon my curiosity, but are you a friend of Miss Breward's?"

"I believe she would allow me to say 'yes.' By the way, hereabouts we
call her Miss Sally. Everyone does--even the butler at Meriton, with
whom I was speaking just now."

"Indeed? . . . I am wondering if you would presently add to your
kindness by giving me an introduction to her? Trust me," he went on,
staring down the road ahead and answering Parson Chichester's quick
glance without seeming to perceive it, "you will incur no
responsibility. I am not a mendicant priest, and only ask her to favour
me with an address, which I believe she can easily give."

"An address?"

The stranger's somewhat grim mouth relaxed a little at the corners.

"The English language," he said, "is full of distracting homonyms. I am
not asking her for a sermon, but to be directed where a certain
gentleman resides--at present, I have reason to believe, abroad--where,
for instance, a letter will reach him."

"Sir Miles Chandon?"

"Precisely. You have hit it. . . . But, to be sure, you were talking
just now with his butler. A worthy fellow, I dare say, though
suspicious of strangers."

Parson Chichester felt pretty much of a fool, and the more annoyed
because unable to detect anything offensive in the tone of the rebuke--
if, indeed, a rebuke had been implied.

"Folk in these parts see few strange faces,"