can discover the writer, whom he positively
asserts to be a woman. So I allowed him to take the thing away with
him. I may as well confess," the old man added, "that I live in some
dread of his making the discovery. Of course it is horrible to think
that St. Hospital harbours anyone capable of such a letter; but to
deal adequately with the culprit--especially if she be a woman--will
be for the moment yet more horrible."

"Excuse me, Master, if I don't quite follow you," said the Chaplain
unsympathetically. "You appear to be exercised rather over the
writer than over Brother Bonaday, against whom the charge lies."

"You have hit on the precise word," answered Master Blanchminster,
smiling. "Brother Copas assures me--"

"But is Brother Copas an entirely credible witness?"

The Master lifted his eyebrows in astonishment.

"Why, who should know better? He is Brother Bonaday's closest
friend. Surely, my dear fellow, I had thought you were aware of
_that_!"

In the face of this simplicity the Chaplain could only grind his
teeth upon a helpless inward wrath. It took him some seconds to
recover speech.

"On my way here," he said at length, "I made some small inquiries,
and find that some days ago Nurse Branscome ceased her attendance on
Bonaday, handing over the case to our excellent Nurse Turner.
This, of course, may mean little."

"It may mean that Brother Copas has taken occasion to warn her."

"It means, anyhow, that--whether prudently or by accident--she has
given pause to the scandal. In this pause I can, perhaps, make
occasion to get at the truth; always with your leave, of course."

"There can be no question of my giving leave or withholding it.
You have received a private letter, which you perceive I have no
desire to read. You must act upon it as directed by your own--er--
taste. And now shall we talk of something else?"

He said it with a mild dignity which effectively closed the
discussion and left Mr. Colt raging. In and about St. Hospital nine
observers out of ten would have told you that the Chaplain held this
dear, do-nothing old Master in the hollow of his hand, and on nine
occasions out of ten the Chaplain felt sure of it. On the tenth he
found himself mocked, as a schoolboy believes he has grasped a
butterfly and opens his fingers cautiously, to find no prisoner
within them. He could never precisely understand how it happened,
and it never failed to annoy him heavily.

After bid