“In the yellow drawing-room, y’r worship.”

The Parson was a magistrate, and, for no known reason, Butts always addressed him as such.

“Very well, I’ll find my way to her.  Send someone around to take the dog-cart, and as soon as he comes, take this gentleman inside until your mistress rings.  Understand?”

“I understand, y’r worship.”

“Then be as brisk as you can, for the horse is fresh to-day.”

“He ‘as aperiently been workin’ hisself into a lather, y’r worship,” said Butts.  “Which I ’ave noticed, sir, your ’abit—­or, as I may say, your custom—­of bringin’ ’im in cool.”

But Parson Chichester had left him, and was making his way across the hall to the yellow drawing-room, which he entered with little ceremony.  Miss Sally rose to receive him.  She had been sitting in its oriel window with a small table before her, and on the table a Bible.  This was her rule on a Sunday afternoon, and every Sunday after luncheon she donned a pair of spectacles.  Butts, who knew her habits to a hair, brought the spectacles once a week and laid the book open at his favourite passages.  For aught it mattered, he might have opened it upside-down.

“You’re pretty punctual,” said Miss Sally.  “Before your time, if anything.”

“Yes; the horse bolted, or tried to,” Mr. Chichester explained.  “Guess whom I’ve brought with me.”

“Not Miles Chandon?”

“No; he’s at Monte Carlo.  His address, the Grand Hotel.  Guess again.”

“Don’t be foolish and waste time.  The children may be arriving at any minute.”

“You must keep ’em out of the way, then.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve brought him.”

“‘Him’?  You’ll excuse me—­”

“Glasson.”

“Glasson?” Her eyes opened wide.  “You’ve brought Glasson?  Well, I must say you’re clever.”

“On the contrary, I’ve been infernally stupid.  I met him coming down the drive from Meriton.  He had been pumping Matters for Sir Miles’s present address—­which he didn’t get.  What’s his game, do you think?”

“Blackmail.”

“That crossed my mind too.  He seems a deep one, and I don’t like his looks.”

“You are sure it is Glasson?”

Parson Chichester produced the card, badly crumpled, from his riding-glove.  Miss Sally pushed her Sunday spectacles higher on her brows and examined it with her clear eyes.

“This,” she said “is going to be a treat.  The man cannot possibly have guessed that the children are in this neighbourhood.  You haven’t enlightened him, I hope?”

“Certainly not,” Mr. Chichester answered indignantly.

“Well, you said a moment since that you’d been infernally stupid, and I don’t yet know what form it took.”

“I let him know what I’d discovered—­that he had been pumping Matters for Sir Miles’s address.”

“There is no harm in that.  He can have the address from me as soon as he likes.”