“Oh, quite.  I called merely in the hope that you would give me some further information about my brother’s will; since, apart from this legacy, I know nothing.”

“You must excuse me, but I prefer to leave that to the Major.  In any case, the will is to be proved without delay, and may then, as you know, be inspected for a shilling.”

Parson Jack, guileless man that he was, had a way of putting a straight question.  “I want to know,” said he quietly, “why on earth you are treating me like this?”

“My dear sir—­” began the lawyer.  But Parson Jack cut him short.

“I, for my part, will be plain with you.  I ask to see the will simply because I know nothing of my brother’s property, and wish to see how his wife and children are provided for.  There is nothing extraordinary in that, surely?”

“H’m”—­the lawyer pondered, eyeing him.  Clearly there was something in this shabbily dressed clergyman which countered his expectations.  “The person who could best satisfy you on this point would be Mrs. Flood herself; but I take it you have no desire to see her personally.”

“Mrs. Flood?  Do you mean my brother’s wife?”

“Certainly.”

“But—­but is she here—­in Plymouth?” Parson Jack’s eyes opened wide.

“I presume so.  Hoe Terrace, she informs me, has been her address for these eight years.  But of course you are aware—­”

“Aware, sir?  I am aware of nothing.  Least of all am I aware of any reason why I should not call upon her.  Hoe Terrace, did you say?  What number?”

“Thirty-four.  You will bear in mind that I have not advised—­”

“Oh, dear me, no; you have advised nothing.  Good-morning, Mr. Cudmore!” And Parson Jack, fuming, found himself in the street.

He filled and lit his pipe, to soothe his humour.  But he forgot that the clergy of Plymouth do not as a rule smoke clay pipes in the public streets, and the attention he excited puzzled and angered him yet further.  He set it down to his threadbare coat and rustic boots.  It was in no sweet mood that he strode up Hoe Terrace, eyeing the numbers above the doors, and halted at length to knock out his pipe before a house with an unpainted area-railing, to which a small boy in ragged knickerbockers was engaged in attaching with a string the tail of a protesting puppy.

“I shouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Parson Jack, rapping the bowl of his pipe against his boot-heel.

“I don’t suppose you would,” retorted the small boy.  “But then there’s some parsons wouldn’t smoke a clay.”

Before Parson Jack could discover a repartee the door opened and a young man with a weak chin and bright yellow boots came out laughing, followed by a good-looking girl, who turned on the step to close the door behind her.  Although in black, she was outrageously over-dressed.  An enormous black feather nodded above her “picture” hat, and with one hand she held up her skirt, revealing a white embroidered petticoat deplorably stained with mud.