Parson Chichester felt pretty much of a fool, and the more annoyed because unable to detect anything offensive in the tone of the rebuke—­ if, indeed, a rebuke had been implied.

“Folk in these parts see few strange faces,” he said lamely.

“It was the kinder of you to offer me a lift.  I had heard, by the way, that Sir Miles’s butler did not come from these parts, but was a much-travelled man.”

“That is so.”

Mr. Chichester felt that he was getting very markedly the worst of this conversation, and decided to let it drop.  But just as he had arrived at this decision the stranger faced around and asked—­

“Perhaps you know Sir Miles’s present address?”

At this point-blank question Mr. Chichester’s face grew very red indeed.  He had brought it on himself.  Denial was useless.

“Perhaps I do,” he answered.  “But you were going to ask Miss Sally for it, and we will leave it to her.”

“Quite right,” the stranger assented.  “Here is my own card, though it will convey nothing to you.”

But it conveyed a great deal.  Parson Chichester reached across with his disengaged right hand, took the card and read—­

The Reverend Purdie J. Glasson, LL.D.,
Holy Innocents’ Orphanage,
Bursfield.

The words danced before his eyes.  Imagine some unskilled player pitted against an expert at cards, awake at one moment to his weakness, and the next overwhelmingly aware that his opponent, by an incredible blunder, is delivered into his hands.  The elation of it fairly frightened Mr. Chichester, and he so far forgot himself as to take up his whip and administer a sharp flick on Archdeacon’s shoulder—­an outrage which the good horse, after an instant of amazement, resented by a creditable attempt to bolt.  This was probably the best that could have happened.  It gave the Parson a job he understood, and for five minutes effectually prevented his speaking.

They had almost reached the entrance gate of Culvercoombe before he reduced the affronted horse to a trot, and Doctor Glasson, who had been clutching the rail of the dog-cart in acutest physical terror, had no nerve as yet to resume the conversation.  A lodge-keeper ran out and opened the gate (service under Miss Sally was always alert), and they rolled smoothly down the well-gravelled drive through an avenue of yellowing sycamores.

A couple of aged mastiff bitches—­mothers in their time, and now great-grandmothers, of a noble race—­lay sunning themselves before the house-porch.  They recognised the parson’s dog-cart and heaved themselves up, wagging their tails to welcome a respected, if rare, visitor; but growled at sight of his companion.  Their names were Tryphena and Tryphosa.

Parson Chichester alighted and rang the bell, after handing the reins to Doctor Glasson with an apology.

“I’ll get the groom sent round in a moment,” he explained, and to the butler who opened the door, “Miss Sally is expecting me, eh, Butts?”