“But surely you see through his game?  He has tracked out the boy’s parentage, and he’s out after blackmail.”

“To be sure he is; and, what’s more, he’s going to have a run for his money.  What on earth is the matter outside?”

For a noise of furious barking had broken out suddenly, and, as she spoke, there mingled with it a sound very like a human scream.

Miss Sally hurried out to the hall, the parson close at her heels.  They had scarcely crossed the threshold when Doctor Glasson staggered by them like a maniac, with Tryphosa hanging on to his clerical skirts and Tryphena in full cry behind.  Butts brought up the rear of the chase, vainly shouting to call them off.

“Down, Tryphosa!” Miss Sally ran in, planted a well-directed kick on the mastiff’s ribs, caught her by the scruff of the neck and banged her ears.  “Back, you brutes!”

Catching a dog-whip down from the rack, she lashed and drove them yelping; while Glasson flung himself on a couch and lay panting, with a sickly yellow face and a hand pressed to his heart.

“Oh, ma’am, your lady dogs!”

“‘Bitches’ in the country, Doctor Glasson.  I must apologise for them.  Butts, bring some brandy and water to the drawing-room. . . .  Not bitten, I hope?  If the skin’s broken we had better cauterise.”

Miss Sally confessed afterwards that she would have enjoyed operating on the man with a red-hot poker:  “and I’d have used the biggest poker in the house.”  But Doctor Glasson arose, felt himself, and announced that it was unnecessary.

“Mr. Chichester tells me you wish for Sir Miles Chandon’s address.  He was, until a couple of days ago, at the Grand Hotel, Monte Carlo, and I have no doubt is there yet.”

Doctor Glasson’s face fell somewhat.

“I thank you,” he murmured.  “It is a long distance.”

“A letter will reach him in less than two days.”

“Yes,” said Glasson, and said no more.

“But a letter addressed to him at Meriton would, of course, be forwarded.  So I conclude you wish to see him personally.  Are you—­ pardon the question—­a friend of his?”

“Not a personal friend, ma’am.  I came to see him on a matter of business.”

“From Bursfield,” said Miss Sally, with a glance at the card.

It was a superstition with Glasson to tell the truth about trifles.

“From Plymouth, to be exact, ma’am.  I have been indulging in a—­er—­ brief holiday.”

“Ah,” thought Miss Sally to herself, “researching, no doubt!”

Aloud she said—­

“Well, I am sorry, sir; but Monte Carlo’s the address, and that’s all I can do for you except to offer you some refreshment, and—­yes, let me see—­you are returning to-night?”

“As speedily as possible, ma’am.”

“Sunday trains are awkward.  There is one at Fair Anchor at 4.35, and after that no other until the 7.12, which picks up the evening mail at Taunton.  You are on foot, I understand, and will certainly not catch the first unless you let my man drive you over.”