"Quite so." Anstice put the two letters carefully away in his pocket-book. "Now I must go, Sir Richard; but please believe I am grateful for your kindness in this matter."

He shook hands with Sir Richard, and hurried away to his waiting car; and as he drove from the house his lips were firmly set together, and the look in his eyes betokened no good to the wretched creature who had penned this latest communication.

And Sir Richard, watching him from a side window, felt a sharp pang of regret that this man, whom he liked and trusted, had not managed, apparently, to win his daughter's affection.

"Damme if I wouldn't rather have had him for a son-in-law than the other," he said to himself presently. "Cheniston's a decent fellow enough, brainy and a thoroughly steady sort of chap, but there is something about this man that I rather admire. It may be his pluck, or his quiet tenacity of purpose--I'm hanged if I know what it is; but on my soul I'm inclined to wish I'd been called upon to give my little girl into his keeping. As for that affair in India, it's not every man who would have had the pluck to shoot the girl, and precious few men would have lived it down as he has done. I believe I'd have put a bullet through my brain if it had been me," said Sir Richard honestly, "but I can quite realize that it's a long sight finer to see the thing through.

And if there's to be fresh trouble over these confounded anonymous scrawls, well, I'll stick to the fellow through thick and thin!"

And with this meritorious resolve Sir Richard went back to his comfortable fire and the paper which he had not, as yet, had the heart to peruse.

CHAPTER II

On the day following Sir Richard's interview with Anstice the latter received an unexpected call from the Vicar of Littlefield parish.

The two men were on fairly intimate terms. For the clergyman, as a scholar and a gentleman, Anstice had a real respect, though the religious side of Mr. Carey's office, as expressed in his spiritual ministrations, could hardly be expected to appeal to the man who could never rid himself of the feeling that G.o.d had deliberately failed him at a critical moment.

Mr. Carey, on his side, had a genuine liking for Anstice, whose skill he admired with the impersonal admiration which a specialist in one profession accords to an expert in another vocation. But mingled with his admiration was an uneasy suspicion that all was not well with the spiritual health of this most indifferent of his parishioners, and he was grieved, with the charity of a large and generous nature, by the gloom, the melancholy, which at times were written only too plainly on the other's face.

The two men were brought into contact now and again by the very nature of their respective callings. Soul and body are after all so closely related that the health of the one depends largely on that of the other; and at times both priest and physician must take their share in the gracious task of healing. And on the occasions when their work brought them together the mutual liking and respect between the two was sensibly strengthened.

So that it did not cause Anstice more than a pa.s.sing sensation of surprise when on this cold and raw November evening the Reverend Fraser Carey was announced as a visitor.

"Mr. Carey here? Where have you taken him, Alice?"

"Into the drawing-room, sir. The fire's not lighted, but I can put a match to it in a moment."

"No, don't do that." Anstice hated the little-used drawing-room. "Take Mr. Carey into my room, and bring up some coffee directly, will you?"

"Yes, sir." The maid, who in common with the rest of the household regarded Anstice with an admiration not unmixed with awe, withdrew to carry out her instructions; and hastily finishing an important letter, Anstice went in search of his rare visitor.

"Hallo, Carey--jolly good of you to look me up on a beastly night like this." He poked the fire into a brighter blaze, and drew forward a capacious leather chair. "Sit down and light up. We'll have some coffee presently--I know you don't care for anything stronger."

"Thanks, Anstice." Mr. Carey sank down into the big chair and held his transparent-looking hands to the flames. "It is a bad night, as you say, and this fire is uncommonly cosy."

Fraser Carey was a man of middle age who, through const.i.tutional delicacy, looked older than his years. His features, well-cut in themselves, were marred by the excessive thinness and pallor of his face; and his eyes, beneath their heavy lids, told a story of unrestful nights spent in wrestling with some mental or physical pain which forbade the refreshment of sleep. He had never consulted Anstice professionally, though he had called upon his services on behalf of a little niece who sometimes visited him; and Anstice wondered now and then what scruple it was which prevented his friend making use of such skill as he might reasonably claim to possess.

To-night Carey looked even more tired, more fragile than ever; and Anstice refrained from speech until he had poured out two cups of deliciously fragrant coffee and had seen that Carey's pipe was in full blast.

Then: "It is quite a time since you dropped in for a chat," he said cheerfully. "Yet this isn't a specially busy season of the year for you parsons, is it? _We_ are run off our legs with influenza and all the rest of it, thanks to the weather, but you----"

"We parsons are generally busy, you know," returned Carey with a smile.

"Human nature being what it is there is no close-time for sin--nor for goodness either, G.o.d be thanked," he added hastily.

"I suppose not." Having satisfactorily loaded his pipe Anstice lay back and puffed luxuriously. "In any case I'm glad you've found time to drop in. By the way, there is a woman down in Blue Row about whom I wanted to see you. I think you know the family--the man is a blacksmith, Richards by name."

He outlined the needs of the case, and Carey took a few notes in the little book he carried for the purpose. After that the conversation ranged desultorily over various local matters mildly interesting to both; and then there fell a sudden pause which Anstice at least felt to be significant.

It was broken, abruptly, by the clergyman, who sat upright in his chair, and, laying his empty pipe down on the table, turned to face his host more fully.

"Anstice." His thin, rather musical voice held a new and arresting note.

"My visit to you to-night was not of, a purely social nature. I came because--I may have been wrong--because I felt it to be both an obligation and an act of friendship to come here to discuss with you a peculiar situation which has arisen within the last day or two in Littlefield."

Instantly Anstice guessed what was to follow; and he knocked the ashes out of his pipe with a rather impatient gesture which was not lost on the other man.

"If you will listen to me for one moment," said Carey hastily, "you may then refuse to discuss the subject if you wish. But I think it will really be better if you can bring yourself to listen to me first."

Even Anstice's annoyance was not proof against the other man's moderation; and he spoke with creditable mildness.

"I think I know what you want to say, Carey. Is it--this interesting subject--concerned with certain statements which are being made about me--anonymously--in the parish?"

Carey's face lost a little of its uneasiness.

"Yes," he said, "since you appear to be already acquainted with the fact there is no use in denying it. Indeed, I don't wish to do so, seeing that is what I came to say to you."

"You have received such a letter yourself?"

"Yes. I received a letter this morning."

"I see." For a moment Anstice sat in silence, his lips set firmly together; and the other man, watching, was struck, as Sir Richard had been on the previous day, by the look of suffering in his face. "Well, Carey, is it asking you too much to let me know exactly what form the accusation against me took? Or have you the letter with you?"

"No. I burnt the letter immediately," Carey answered. "Naturally such communications are best destroyed--and forgotten--at once. But"--he hesitated--"the fact is I have since discovered that I am not the only person to be addressed by the unknown correspondent."

"Indeed?" Anstice's eyes flashed. "Is it permissible to ask who else has been thus--honoured?"

The clergyman paused a moment before replying, and it was evident a conflict was taking place in his mind. The struggle was, however, soon terminated, and he answered Anstice's question resolutely.

"Yes, it is quite permissible. Indeed, I had already gained the consent of the other--victim"--he smiled deprecatingly--"to tell you, if necessary, what was being said behind your back."

"Well?" Anstice's tone was peremptory, but his friend did not resent it.

"The other anonymous letter--the only other one of which I have any knowledge--was addressed to the wife of your colleague--I don't think he's your rival--Dr. Willows."

"Oh!" Anstice opened his eyes; he had not expected this revelation.

"Poor little woman! What a shame to victimize her!"

"Yes--as you know, she's quite a girl, they've only been married three months; and the letter worried her considerably--so much so, in fact, that as Willows is away on a week's holiday she sent for me to advise her in the matter."

"What advice did you give her?"

"Well, in the first flush of indignation she was all for sending the horrid thing on to you--a pretty sure sign that any accusation against you had missed its mark," said Carey with a smile. "However, her heart failed her at the critical moment and she sent for me instead. She was at school with some young cousins of mine and we are on quite friendly terms; so she confided her perplexity to me at once."

"I see." Anstice was thinking hard. "And I suppose you returned her confidence by giving her yours?"

"Yes." Carey looked at him frankly. "I requested her to keep my confidence as I would keep hers--save to you--and I am sure she will do so. But"--he spoke gravely now--"I am afraid, Anstice, there is someone in the neighbourhood who wishes to work you ill."