But the hour passed and found Dick still composing.  The ‘Bishop’ watched his friend with spaniel-like patience.  At last the scribe flung down his pen, and read aloud, as follows—­

“The Rectory, San Lorenzo,

“September 1,

“To the Rev. George Carteret.

“Dear Sir,—­I beg to advise you, with sincere regret on my part, of the sudden demise of your son, Richard Beaumont Carteret, who died at my house just three days ago of heart failure, quite painlessly.  You will find enclosed the doctor’s certificate, the coroner’s report, and the undertaker’s bill paid and receipted.

“I had a very honest friendship for your son, although I deplored a misspent youth.  But I rejoice to say that poor Dick lived long enough to heartily repent him of his sins, which after all were sins against himself.  He often talked of home and you, alluding feelingly to the sacrifices you had made on his behalf—­sacrifices that he confessed were far greater than his deserts.

“I am a poor man, but I felt impelled to give your son the funeral of a gentleman.  The bills I have paid, as you will observe, in full, including the purchase in perpetuity of a lot in the cemetery.  Should you see fit to refund me these amounts, I shall not refuse the money; if, on the other hand, you repudiate the claim, I shall let the matter drop.  I could not permit my friend to be buried as a pauper.

“It is possible that you may wish a stone placed at the head of the grave.  A suitable cross of plain white marble would cost about two hundred dollars.  If you care to entrust me with the sad commission, I will give it my earnest attention.

“I refer you to my aunt, Miss Janetta Crisp, of Montpelier Road, Brighton, and also to the Clergy List.

“Very truly yours,

“Tudor Crisp (The Rev.).”

“There,” exclaimed Mr. Carteret, “that will do the trick.  The bills and other documents we’ll forge at our leisure to-morrow.”

“I don’t quite like the use of my name,” protested the Rev. Tudor Crisp.

Dick explained that his reverence would be entitled to half the plunder, and that discovery was almost impossible.  Still, despite Dick’s eloquence, the ‘Bishop’ submitted that such a cruel fraud was “tough” on the old gentleman.

“On the contrary,” retorted the other.  “He will assume that I died in the odour of sanctity, in the atmosphere of a rectory, in the arms of a parson.  He’ll worry no more, poor old chap, about my past or my future.  This is the turning-point of our fortunes.  Don’t look so glum, man.  Here—­hit the demijohn again.”