"By the way"--Anstice was not listening very closely--"you have not yet told me the nature of the accusation. I presume it was the same in both cases?"

"Practically, yes. It was a statement, made very plainly and directly, that you--you----"

He broke off, his thin cheeks flushing; and Anstice smiled rather dryly.

"Don't let it distress you," he said, with an attempt at jocularity.

"Suppose I save you the trouble of repeating the contents of the letters. I daresay the writer stated that I once, in order to get myself out of a tight place in India, wantonly sacrificed the woman who was my companion?"

"Yes," said Carey slowly, "that was the substance of both communications. The idea was, I gather, to prevent the recipients having confidence in you by pointing to you as one who would save himself at the expense of a woman. Of course"--he spoke more fluently now--"no one who knew you would dream of attaching any weight whatever to that sort of cruel and senseless lie; and as I told Mrs. Willows, such a baseless slander is better left to die for want of notice. She quite agreed with me," he added hastily, and Anstice's face cleared.

"Thanks, Carey." He held out his hand, and Carey's transparent, fingers clasped it with a strength which would have been surprising to one who did not know the indomitable spirit which dwelt in the wasted frame.

"You are a true friend, and your friendship deserves some return.

Unfortunately the only return I can make is to tell you the miserable story which is perverted by the anonymous writer into something less creditable than--I hope--you will judge it to be."

He sprang up suddenly and leaned against the mantelpiece, hands in pockets as usual; and in that position, looking down on his friend as he sat in his capacious chair, he outlined once again the happenings of that bygone Indian dawn.

He related the affair shortly--it was not a subject on which he cared to dwell; and the clergyman listened thoughtfully, his sunken eyes fixed on the pale face beneath the cl.u.s.tering black hair with an intentness of regard which would have disturbed anyone less engrossed than the narrator of the sad little story.

When he had finished Anstice moved abruptly.

"Well, that's the truth--and now you see that those statements made about me are the most insidious form of lying--with a good foundation of half-truths. That's what makes it so infernally hard to refute them."

"I see." Carey loaned forward thoughtfully, shielding his face from the flames with his thin hands. "It is a pitiful story, Anstice; and if you will allow me to say so I admire and respect a man who can live down the memory of a tragedy as you have done."

"I have lived it down--yes," said Anstice, rather grimly. "But it's been jolly hard at times not to throw up the sponge. Several people have suggested--discreetly--that suicide is quite justifiable in cases of this sort, but----"

"Suicide is _never_ justifiable." The clergyman's delicate features stiffened. "From the days of Judas Iscariot--the most notorious suicide in the history of the world, I suppose--it has been the refuge of the coward, the ingrate, the weak-minded. People talk of the pluck required to enable a man to take his own life. What pluck is there in deliberately turning one's back on the problems one hasn't the courage, or the patience, to solve? Believe me, suicide--self-murder--is an unthinkable resource to a really brave man."

He stopped; but Anstice made no reply, though a rather cynical smile played about his lips; and presently Carey went on speaking.

"It always seems to me such sheer folly, such egregious lunacy, to precipitate one's self into the unknown, seeing that one can hardly expect the Giver of Life to welcome the soul He has not called. And I have often wondered what depths of misery, of shame, must overwhelm the uninvited soul in what someone has called 'the first five minutes after Death.'"

His voice sank to a whisper on the last words; and for a moment the room was very still. Then Carey leaned forward and laid one hand on the other's arm with a rather deprecating smile.

"Forgive me, Anstice! The subject we were discussing is one on which I find it difficult to hold my peace. But knowing you, I know that suicide is not, would never be, the way out to one of your disposition."

Anstice moved restlessly.

"Odd you should use that expression," he said quickly. "Others have employed it in connection with this miserable story of mine. No, suicide is not the way out--nor is another expedient to which I have had recourse. But"--suddenly his face lost its quietness and grew keen, alert--"this slander has got to be stopped. You see this is not the first time the neighborhood has been infested with this plague."

"You refer to the unhappy circ.u.mstances connected with my predecessor's wife?"

"Yes. You know the story, of course?"

"Yes. I am also acquainted--but very slightly--with Mrs. Carstairs."

"Then you know a much-maligned woman," said Anstice. "And it is in order to save her from further unhappiness that I intend to sift this matter to the bottom."

"I am delighted to hear you say so," said Carey earnestly. "And if I can help you in any way my services are yours. First of all, how do you propose starting on the sifting process?"

"I have already made a start," rejoined Anstice. "Through the good offices of Sir Richard Wayne, who has also been pestered with a letter, I have discovered that the writing of those communications and of those earlier ones you mentioned just now is in many respects identical."

Carey sat upright, his face alight with interest.

"Really? You think the writer of both is the same?"

"Yes. Of course until I have studied the two letters in my possession a little more closely I can't be positively certain on the point; but I intend to submit them both to an expert at the first opportunity."

"I can help you there," said Carey quite eagerly. "I mean, if you do not know of a reliable expert I can give you the name of the cleverest man in England."

"Can you?" Anstice's notebook was out in a second. "Thanks very much--I will write to him to-morrow. But in my own mind I have not a shadow of doubt that the same person wrote them both."

"By the way"--Carey spoke slowly--"how many people about here would be likely to know the story you have told me to-night? Out in India, of course, there might be some who would remember such a tragic episode.

But it's a far cry from Alostan to Littlefield."

"The only people in the neighbourhood who have heard the true story are, so far as I know, Sir Richard Wayne and"--he hesitated--"and his daughter, who is now Mrs. Cheniston."

"I see." Fraser Carey's eyes had noted the change of tone as Anstice spoke the last name; and his quick humanism was stirred by the pitiful idea which crossed his mind. "Sir Richard's daughter knew the story?

And--may we conclude that her husband would naturally share her knowledge?"

"Naturally--yes." He emphasized the word. "You see I omitted to tell you that the girl I--the girl who was with me in the hut was engaged to this very man, Bruce Cheniston, whom Miss Wayne eventually married."

"Was she, indeed?" Carey was really surprised. "What a strange coincidence that you should meet again--as I suppose you met--in Littlefield."

"We met, yes," said Anstice, his eyes growing fierce at the remembrance of their meeting. "But--well, as you will readily see, none of those persons is in the least likely to have anything to do with the letters we are discussing. I daresay Mrs. Carstairs may possibly know the story--if her brother saw fit to hand it on to her. But so far as I know they are the only people who do know it, and naturally we can write all of them off the list of suspects at once."

"Quite so. I wonder"--Carey rose as he spoke--"I wonder if anyone else has received one of those shameful letters? Of course should the matter go no further there is not much real harm done, though of course----"

"Whether there are other letters or not the matter is going to be thoroughly investigated," said Anstice resolutely; and Carey experienced a disturbing and quite unusual pang of regret for his own vanished youth and strength as he heard the ring of determination in the other man's voice, noted the firm set of his lips and the proud and dauntless gesture with which he threw back his head, his black eyes sparkling.

"Well, I shall follow the course of events with deep interest," he said, striving as he spoke to fight down that unworthy sensation of envy of another's superior equipment for the battle of life. "Of course I will keep my own counsel; and in a few days at latest you should know whether your enemy intends to strike again."

"It is very good of you to take an interest in the horrible affair."

Anstice was really grateful. "Must you go? You haven't given me much of your company to-night."

"I must go--yes." His smile robbed the words of any discourtesy. "But don't forget to call upon me if you want any help. And for the sake of all concerned, but especially, if I may say so, for the sake of the poor lady at Cherry Orchard, I trust you may be able to clear the matter up for all the world to see."

"It is chiefly for Mrs. Carstairs' sake that I intend to do so,"

returned Anstice briefly. "Personally I don't care what may be said about me; but I don't mean Mrs. Carstairs to be victimized further. And if it costs me every penny I've got in the world the writer of these letters shall be brought to book!"

And Fraser Carey agreed, mentally, with Sir Richard's estimation of Mrs.

Carstairs' new champion. But he went further than Sir Richard, in that he found occasion to wonder whether after all this unexpected and unwelcome repet.i.tion of the former anonymous campaign which had convulsed Littlefield might not in the end prove the salvation of the man against whom it was presumably directed.

Unlike Sir Richard, Carey was an observer of men, a student of human nature, and he had not failed to notice the increased alertness which had characterized Anstice this evening as he discussed the situation.

The rather bitter, indifferent look which generally clouded his face had lifted, giving way to a brighter, more open expression; and the half melancholy cynicism which Carey had deplored had vanished before the eager determination to see an innocent and wronged woman righted in the eyes of the world.

"The man has brooded so long over what he considers to be an injustice of G.o.d that he has lost, temporarily, his sense of proportion," said Carey to himself as he trudged, rather wearily, homeward. "But if he devotes himself, as he seems anxious to do, to the service of a woman who has suffered an equal injustice, though at the hands of man this time, possibly he will forgot his own bitterness in the contemplation of her marred life. And G.o.d, who is the G.o.d of Justice, whatever scoffers may say, will bring the truth to light in His own good time. So the two tragedies may react on one another; for the lives of all of us are bound together by mysterious and undreamed-of links; and in the effort to free the soul of a woman from its bondage his own soul may well find its freedom."

But Fraser Carey was a mystic; and since the materialistic world looks with suspicion on mysticism, it is probable that even Anstice, who knew and respected him, would have heard his last speech with a pa.s.sing wonder that a man should hold so unpractical and untenable a view of existence as the words would seem to imply.