he said lamely.

"It was the kinder of you to offer me a lift. I had heard, by the way,
that Sir Miles's butler did not come from these parts, but was a
much-travelled man."

"That is so."

Mr. Chichester felt that he was getting very markedly the worst of this
conversation, and decided to let it drop. But just as he had arrived at
this decision the stranger faced around and asked--

"Perhaps _you_ know Sir Miles's present address?"

At this point-blank question Mr. Chichester's face grew very red indeed.
He had brought it on himself. Denial was useless.

"Perhaps I do," he answered. "But you were going to ask Miss Sally for
it, and we will leave it to her."

"Quite right," the stranger assented. "Here is my own card, though it
will convey nothing to you."

But it conveyed a great deal. Parson Chichester reached across with his
disengaged right hand, took the card and read--

The Reverend Purdie J. Glasson, LL.D.,
Holy Innocents' Orphanage,
Bursfield.

The words danced before his eyes. Imagine some unskilled player pitted
against an expert at cards, awake at one moment to his weakness, and the
next overwhelmingly aware that his opponent, by an incredible blunder,
is delivered into his hands. The elation of it fairly frightened Mr.
Chichester, and he so far forgot himself as to take up his whip and
administer a sharp flick on Archdeacon's shoulder--an outrage which the
good horse, after an instant of amazement, resented by a creditable
attempt to bolt. This was probably the best that could have happened.
It gave the Parson a job he understood, and for five minutes effectually
prevented his speaking.

They had almost reached the entrance gate of Culvercoombe before he
reduced the affronted horse to a trot, and Doctor Glasson, who had been
clutching the rail of the dog-cart in acutest physical terror, had no
nerve as yet to resume the conversation. A lodge-keeper ran out and
opened the gate (service under Miss Sally was always alert), and they
rolled smoothly down the well-gravelled drive through an avenue of
yellowing sycamores.

A couple of aged mastiff bitches--mothers in their time, and now
great-grandmothers, of a noble race--lay sunning themselves before the
house-porch. They recognised the parson's dog-cart and heaved
themselves up, wagging their tails to welcome a respected, if rare,
visitor; but growled at sight of his companion. Their names were
Tryphena