Matters paused.

Parson Chichester laughed.

“If you had refused me, you ’d have heard ’em quite distinctly.”

“Yes, sir.  The address is, Grand Hotel, Monte Carlo.  I heard from Sir Miles only yesterday.  You understand, sir, that as a rule he does not choose for everyone to know his movements.”

“I do, and am obliged by your confidence.  I want it for Miss Sally Breward; and, if this reassures you, I shall give it to her and to no one else.”

“I thank you, sir; it was unnecessary.  But I may tell you, sir, that Sir Miles has a very high opinion of Miss Sally, as I happen to know.”

“We all have, Matters. . . .  Well, I have what I came for, and will be driving back to Culvercoombe with it.  So good day, and thank you!”

“I thank you, sir.”

Mr. Matters bowed.

Parson Chichester turned Archdeacon, and put him at his best trotting speed—­by a single hint from the reins, no whip needed.  This time he had to descend and open the lodge gates for himself.  A mile and a half beyond them the road crossed one of the many high brows of the moor, and here on the rise he discerned a black-habited figure trudging along the road ahead.

He recognised the stranger at once, and reined up as he overtook him.

“Good day again, sir!  Can I offer you a lift?”

“I thank you,” said the stranger.  “I am bound for a place called Culvercoombe.”

“Why, and so am I!  So you must give me the pleasure.”

“You are exceedingly kind.”

He clambered up, not very skilfully, and the dog-cart bowled on again.

For a while the two kept silence.  Then Parson Chichester made an opening—­

“You don’t belong to these parts?” he asked.

“No. . . .  Pardon my curiosity, but are you a friend of Miss Breward’s?”

“I believe she would allow me to say ‘yes.’  By the way, hereabouts we call her Miss Sally.  Everyone does—­even the butler at Meriton, with whom I was speaking just now.”

“Indeed? . . .  I am wondering if you would presently add to your kindness by giving me an introduction to her?  Trust me,” he went on, staring down the road ahead and answering Parson Chichester’s quick glance without seeming to perceive it, “you will incur no responsibility.  I am not a mendicant priest, and only ask her to favour me with an address, which I believe she can easily give.”

“An address?”

The stranger’s somewhat grim mouth relaxed a little at the corners.

“The English language,” he said, “is full of distracting homonyms.  I am not asking her for a sermon, but to be directed where a certain gentleman resides—­at present, I have reason to believe, abroad—­where, for instance, a letter will reach him.”

“Sir Miles Chandon?”

“Precisely.  You have hit it. . . .  But, to be sure, you were talking just now with his butler.  A worthy fellow, I dare say, though suspicious of strangers.”