Hume did not send a telegram to the Sleagill Rectory.  He explained that, owing to the attitude adopted by the Rev. Wilberforce Layton, Helen avoided friction with her father by receiving his (Hume’s) letters under cover to Mrs. Eastham.

The younger man was quick to note that Brett did not like this arrangement.  He smilingly protested that there was no deception In the matter.

“Helen would never consent to anything that savoured of subterfuge,” he explained.  “Her father knows well that she hears from me constantly.  He is a studious, reserved old gentleman.  He was very much shocked by the tragedy, and his daughter’s innocent association with it.  He told me quite plainly that, under the circumstances, I ought to consider the engagement at an end.  Possibly I resented an imputation not intended by him.  I made some unfair retort about his hyper-sensitiveness, and promptly sent Helen a formal release.  She tore it up, and at the same time accepted it so far as I was concerned.  We met at Mrs. Eastham’s house—­that good lady has remained my firm friend throughout—­and I don’t mind telling you, Brett, that I broke down utterly.  Well, we began by sending messages to each other through Mrs. Eastham.  Then I forwarded to Helen, in the same way, a copy of a rough diary of my travels.  She wrote to me direct; I replied.  The position now is that she will not marry me without her father’s consent, and she will marry no one else.  He is aware of our correspondence.  She always tells him of my movements.  The poor old rector is worried to know how to act for the best.  His daughter’s happiness is at stake, and so my unhappy affairs have drifted aimlessly for more than a year.”

“The drifting must cease,” said Brett decisively.  “Beechcroft Hall will probably provide scope for activity.”

They reached Stowmarket by a late train.  Next morning they drove to Sleagill—­a pretty village, with a Norman church tower standing squarely in the midst of lofty trees, and white-washed cottages and red-tiled villa-residences nestling in gardens.

“A bower of orchards and green lanes,” murmured the barrister as their dog-cart sped rapidly over the smooth highway.

Hume was driving.  He pointed out the rectory.  His eyes were eagerly searching the lawn and the well-trimmed garden, but he was denied a sight of his divinity.  The few people they encountered gazed at them curiously.  Hume was seemingly unrecognised.

“Here is Mrs. Eastham’s house,” he said, checking the horse’s pace as they approached a roomy, comfortable-looking mansion, occupying an angle where the village street sharply bifurcated.  “And there is Beechcroft!”

The lodge faced the road along which they were advancing.  Beyond the gates the yew-lined drive, with its selvages of deep green turf, led straight to the Elizabethan house a quarter of a mile distant.  The ground in the rear rose gently through a mile or more of the home park.