far as he might be able.  The real question was how to make sure that the vicar should not tell his wife.  If Mrs. Ambrose had the least suspicion that anything unusual was occurring, she would naturally try and extract information from her husband, and she would probably be successful; women, the squire thought, very generally succeed in operations of that kind.  But if once Mr. Ambrose could be consulted without arousing his wife’s suspicions, he was a man to be trusted.  Thereupon Mr. Juxon wrote a note to the vicar, saying that he had something of great interest to show him, and begging that, if not otherwise engaged, he would come up to the Hall to lunch.  When he had despatched his messenger, being a man of his word, he went into the library to hunt for some rare volume or manuscript which the vicar had not yet seen, and which might account in a spirit of rigid veracity for the excuse he had given.  Meanwhile, as he turned over his rare and curious folios he debated further upon his conduct; but having once made up his mind to consult Mr. Ambrose, he determined to tell him boldly what had occurred, after receiving from him a promise of secrecy.  The messenger brought back word that the vicar would be delighted to come, and at the hour named the sound of wheels upon the gravel announced the arrival of Strawberry, the old mare, drawing behind her the vicar and his aged henchman, Reynolds, in the traditional vicarage dogcart.  A moment later the vicar entered the library.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose,” said the squire inhospitable tones.  “I have something to show you and I have something to say to you.”  The two shook hands heartily.  Independently of kindred scholarly tastes, they were sympathetic to each other and were always glad to meet.

“It is just the weather for bookworms,” answered the vicar in cheerful tones.  “Dear me, I never come here without envying you and wishing that life were one long rainy afternoon.”

“You know I am inclined to think I am rather an enviable person,” said Mr. Juxon, slowly passing his hand over his glossy hair and leading his guest towards a large table near the fire.  Several volumes lay together upon the polished mahogany.  The squire laid his hand on one of them.

“I have not deceived you,” he said.  “That is a very interesting volume.  It is the black letter Paracelsus I once spoke of.  I have succeeded in getting it at last.”

“Dear me!  What a piece of fortune!” said Mr. Ambrose bending down until his formidable nose almost touched the ancient page.

“Yes,” said the squire, “uncommonly lucky as usual.  Now, excuse my abruptness in changing the subject—­I want to consult you upon an important matter.”

The vicar looked up quickly with that vague, faraway expression which comes into the eyes of a student when he is suddenly called away from contemplating some object of absorbing interest.

“Certainly,” he said, “certainly—­a—­by all means.”