and Tryphosa.

Parson Chichester alighted and rang the bell, after handing the reins to
Doctor Glasson with an apology.

"I'll get the groom sent round in a moment," he explained, and to the
butler who opened the door, "Miss Sally is expecting me, eh, Butts?"

"In the yellow drawing-room, y'r worship."

The Parson was a magistrate, and, for no known reason, Butts always
addressed him as such.

"Very well, I'll find my way to her. Send someone around to take the
dog-cart, and as soon as he comes, take this gentleman inside until your
mistress rings. Understand?"

"I understand, y'r worship."

"Then be as brisk as you can, for the horse is fresh to-day."

"He 'as aperiently been workin' hisself into a lather, y'r worship,"
said Butts. "Which I 'ave noticed, sir, your 'abit--or, as I may say,
your custom--of bringin' 'im in cool."

But Parson Chichester had left him, and was making his way across the
hall to the yellow drawing-room, which he entered with little ceremony.
Miss Sally rose to receive him. She had been sitting in its oriel
window with a small table before her, and on the table a Bible. This
was her rule on a Sunday afternoon, and every Sunday after luncheon she
donned a pair of spectacles. Butts, who knew her habits to a hair,
brought the spectacles once a week and laid the book open at his
favourite passages. For aught it mattered, he might have opened it
upside-down.

"You're pretty punctual," said Miss Sally. "Before your time, if
anything."

"Yes; the horse bolted, or tried to," Mr. Chichester explained.
"Guess whom I've brought with me."

"Not Miles Chandon?"

"No; he's at Monte Carlo. His address, the Grand Hotel. Guess again."

"Don't be foolish and waste time. The children may be arriving at any
minute."

"You must keep 'em out of the way, then."

"Why?"

"Because I've brought him."

"'Him'? You'll excuse me--"

"Glasson."

"Glasson?" Her eyes opened wide. "You've brought Glasson? Well, I must
say you're clever."

"On the contrary, I've been infernally stupid. I met him coming down
the drive from Meriton. He had been pumping Matters for Sir Miles's
present address--which he didn't get. What's his game, do you think?"

"Blackmail."

"That crossed my mind too. He seems a deep one, and I don't like his
looks."

"You are sure it is Glasson?"

Parson Chichester produced the card, badly crumpled, from his
riding-glove. Miss Sally pushed her Sunday spect