of this room, I heard you relating your adventures, and I naturally stopped to listen. To hear if I had anything to say about my visit to your bishop, I suppose, grout Jentham, unpleasantly, I have a great mind to tell him how you watch me, you infernal devil-dodger. Respect my cloth, sir!  What would his lordship of Burmenster say if he knew you were here? His lordship does know. Jentham started. Perhaps he sent you, he said, looking doubtful. No, he did not, contradicted Kargrim, who saw that nothing was to be learned while the man was thus bemused with drink. I have told you the reason of my presence here, and as I am here, I warn you, as a clergyman, not to drink any more. You have already had more than enough. Jentham was staggered by the boldness of the chaplain and stared at him open-mouthed. Then, recovering his speech, he poured forth such a volley of vile words at Kargrim that the chaplain stepped to the door and called the landlord, felt that it was time for him to assert himself. This man is drunk, Mosque, said he sharply, and if you keep such a creature on your premises, you will get into trouble. Greet yourself, cried Jentham, advancing towards Kargrim. I'll wring your neck if you use such language to me. I've killed fifty better men than you in my time. Mosque, he turned with a snarl on the landlord, give me a drink of brandy. I think you've had enough, Mr. Jentham, said the landlord, with a glance at Kargrim, and you owe me money. Curse you, what of that? raved Jentham, stamping. Do you think I'll not pay you? I've not seen the color of your money lately. You'll see it when I choose. I'll have hundreds of pounds next week, hundreds. And he broke out fiercely. Get me more brandy. Don't mind that devil dodger. Go to bed, said Mosque, retiring. Go to bed. Jentham ran after him with an angry cry, so Kargrim, healing himself somewhat out of place in this pothouse row, nodded to Mosque and left the hotel with as much dignity as he could muster. As he went, the burden of Jentham's last speech, hundreds of pounds, hundreds of pounds, rang in his ears, and more than ever he desired to examine the Bishop's checkbook in order to ascertain the exact sum. The secret, he thought, must indeed be a precious one when the cost of his preservation ran into three figures. When Kargrim emerged into the street, it was still filled with people, as ten o'clock was just chiming from the cathedral tower. The gossipers had retired within, and lights were gleaming in the upper windows of the houses, but knots of neighbors still stood about here and there, talking and laughing loudly. Kargrim strolled slowly down the streets towards the east gate, musing over his late experience and enjoying the coolness of the night air after the sultry atmosphere of the coffee-room. The sky was now brilliant with stars and a silver moon rolled aloft in the blue arch, shedding down floods of light on the town, and investing its commonplace aspect with something of romance. The streets were radiant with a cold, clear luster, the shadows cast by the houses lay black as Indian ink on the ground, and the laughter and noise of the passers-by seemed woefully out of place in this magical, white world. Kargrim was alive to the beauty of the night, but was too much taken up with his thoughts to pay much attention to its mingled mystery of shadow and light. As he took his musing way through the wide streets of the modern town, he was suddenly brought to a standstill by hearing the voice of Gentham some distance away. Evidently the man had quarreled with a landlord and had been turned out of the hotel, for he came rolling along in a lurching, drunken manner, roaring out a wild and savage ditty, picked up, no doubt, in some land at the back of beyond. Oh, I have tracked the eight-world climbs and sailed the seven seas. I've made my pile a hundred times and chucked the lot in sprees. But when my ship comes home, my lads, why curse me, don't I know the spot that's worth the bloom and earth, the spot where I shall go? They call it Kalao. Oh, for oh, it's Kalao. For on no condition is extradition allowed in Kalao. Gentham roared and ranted the fierce old chanty with as much gusto and noise as though he were camping in the wastelands to which the song applied, instead of disturbing the peace of a quiet English town. As his thin form came swinging along in the silver light, men and women drew back with looks of alarm to let him pass, and Korgram, not wishing to have trouble with the drunken bully, slipped into the shadow of a house until he passed. As usual, there was no policeman visible, and Gentham went bellowing and storming through the quiet summer night like the disillet ruffian he was. He was making for the country in the direction of the palace, and wondering if he intended to force his way into the house to threaten Dr. Pendle, the chaplain followed immediately behind. But he was careful to keep out of sight, as Gentham was in just the excited frame of mind to draw a knife. And Korgram, knowing his lawless nature, had little doubt but that he had one concealed in his boot or trouser belt. The delicate coward shivered at the idea of a rough and tumble encounter with an arm to buccaneer. On went Gentham, swinging his arms with mad gestures and followed by the black shadow of the chaplain, until the two were clear of the town. Then the gypsy turned down a shadowy lane, cut through a footpath, and when he emerged again into the broad roadway, found himself opposite the iron gates of the Episcopalian Park. Here he stopped singing and shook his fist at them.  He bellowed savagely.  Then he took a pool at a pocket-flask. Korgram listened eagerly in the hope of hearing something definite, and Gentham gathered himself together for further denunciation of the bishop, when round the corner tripped two women, towards whom his drunken attention was at once attracted. With a horse chuckle he reeled towards them. Come along, my beauty, he hick up, stretching out his arms. Here's your haven, wine, and women, I love them both. The women both shrieked and rushed along the road, pursued by the Ruffian. Just as he had laid rude hands on the last one, a young man came racing along the footpath, and swung into the middle of the road. The next moment, Gentham lay sprawled on his back, and the lady assaulted, was clinging to the arm of her preserver. Why, it's Mab, said the young man in surprise. George cried Miss Arden, and burst into tears. Oh, George! Curse you both, grout Gentham, rising slowly. I'll be even with you for that blow, my lad. I'll kick you into the next field, if you don't clear out, retorted George Pendle. Did he hurt you, ma'am? No, no. But I was afraid. I was at Mrs. Tears, and was coming home with Ellen, when that man jumped on to us.  The villain! cried Captain Pendle. Who is he? It was at this moment that, all danger being over, Cargram judged it judicious to emerge from his retreat. He came forward hurriedly, as though he had just arrived on the scene. What is the matter? he exclaimed. I heard a scream. What? Captain Pendle! Miss Arden! This is indeed a surprise. Captain Pendle! cried Gentham. The son of the bishop! Curse him! George whirled his stick and made a dash at the creature, but was restrained by Mab, who implored him not to provoke further quarrels. George took her arm within his own, gave a curt nod to the chaplain, whom he suspected had seen more of the affray than he chose to admit, and flung a word to Gentham. Clear out, you dog! he said, or I'll hand you over to the police. Come, Mab! Yonder is Ellen waiting for you. We'll join her, and I shall see you both home. Gentham stood looking after the three figures with a scowl. You'll hand me over to the police, George Pendle, will you? He muttered, loud enough for Cargram to overhear. Take care! I don't do the same thing to your father. And like a noisome and dangerous animal, he crept back in the shadow of the hedge and disappeared. Aha! chuckled Cargram as he walked towards the park gates. It has to do with the police then, my Lord Bishop, so much the better for me, so much the worse for you. And of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10. Morning Service in the Minster. The Cathedral is the glory of Burmenster, of the county, and indeed of all England, since no churches surpass it in size and splendor save the minsters of York and Canterbury. Founded and endowed by Henry II in 1184 for the Glory of God, it is dedicated to the Blessed St. Wolf of Osserton, a holy hermit of Saxon times, who was killed by the heathen Danes. Bishop Gandolf designed the building in the picturesque style of Anglo-Norman architecture, and as the original plans have been closely adhered to by successive prelates, the vast fabric is the finest example extant of the Norman superiority in architectural science. It was begun by Gandolf in 1185 and finished at the beginning of the present century. Therefore, as it took six hundred years in building, every portion of it is executed in the most perfect manner. It is renowned both for its beauty and sanctity, and forms one of the most splendid memorials of architectural art and earnest faith to be found, even in England, that land of fine churches. The great central tower rises to the height of two hundred feet in square massiveness, and from this point springs a slender and graceful spire to another hundred feet, so that next to Salisbury, the great archetype of this special class of ecclesiastical architecture, it is the tallest spire in England. Two square towers, richly ornamented, embellish the western front, and beneath the great window over the central entrance is a series of canopied arches. The church is cruciform in shape, and is built of portmund stone, the whole being richly ornamented with pinnacles, buttresses, crooked spires, and elaborate tracery. Statues of saints, kings, queens, and bishops are placed in niches along the northern and southern fronts, and the western front itself is sculptured with scenes from Holy Scripture in the quaint grotesque style of medieval art. No ivy is permitted to conceal the beauties of the building, and elevated in the clear air, far above the smoke of the town, it looks as fresh and white and clean cut as though it had been erected only within the last few years. Spared by Henry VIII and the iconoclastic rage of the Puritans, time alone has dealt with it, and time has mellowed the whole to a pale amber hue, which adds greatly to the beauty of the mighty fane. Firmister Cathedral is a poem in stone. Within, the nave and transepts are lofty and imposing, with innumerable arches springing from massive marble pillars. The rude screen is ornate, with figures of saints and patriarchs. The pavement is diversified with brasses and carved marble slabs, and several crusaders' tombs adorn the sidechappels. The many windows are mostly of stained glass, since these were not destroyed by the Puritans, and when the sun shines on a summer's day, the twilight interior is dyed with rich hues and quaint patterns. As the Bishop of Birmister is a high churchman, the altar is magnificently decorated, and during service, what with the light and color and brilliancy, the vast building seems, unlike the dead aspect of many of its kind, to be filled with life and movement and living faith. A Romanist might well imagine that he was attending one of the magnificent and imposing services of his own faith, save that the uttered words are spoken in the mother tongue. As became a city whose whole existence depended upon the central shrine, the services at the cathedral were invariably well attended. The preaching attracted some, the fine music, many, and the imposing ritual introduced by Bishop Pendle went a great way towards bringing worshippers to the altar. A cold, frigid, undecorated service, appealing more to the intellect than the senses, would not have drawn together so vast and attentive a congregation, but the warmth and color and musical fervor of the new ritual lured the most careless within the walls of the sacred building. Bishop Pendle was right in his estimate of human nature, for when the senses are enthralled by color and sound and vast spaces and symbolic decorations, the reverential feeling thus engendered prepares the mind for the reception of the sublime truths of Christianity. A pure faith and a gorgeous ritual are not so incompatible as many people think. God should be worshiped with pomp and splendor. We should bring to his service all that we can invent in the way of art and beauty. If God has prepared for those who believe the splendid habitation of the new Jerusalem with its gates of pearl and its streets of gold, why should we, his creatures, stent our gifts in his service and debar the beautiful things which he inspires us to create with brain and hand, from use in his holy temple. Out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh, and out of the fullness of the hand the giver should give. Date et da bíctua, the great Luther was right in applying this saying to the church. One of the congregation at St. Wolff's on this particular morning was Captain George Pendle and he came less for the service than in the hope, after the manner of those in love, of meeting with Mab Arden. During the reading of the lessons his eyes were roving here and there in search of that beloved face, but much to his dismay he could not see it. Finally on a chair near a pillar he caught sight of Miss Wichelot in her poke bonnet and black silk cloak, but she was alone, and there were no bright eyes beside her to send a glance in the direction of George. Having ascertained beyond all doubt that Mab was not in the church and believing that she was unwell after the shock of Gentham's attack on the previous night, George withdrew his attention from the congregation and settled himself to listen attentively to the anthem. It was worthy of the cathedral and higher praise cannot be given. I have blotted out as a thick cloud sang the boy soloist in a clear sweet treble, I have blotted out thy transgressions and as a cloud thy sins. Then came the triumphant cry of the choir, born on the rich waves of sound rolling from the organ, return unto me for I have redeemed thee. The lofty roof reverberated with the melodious thunder and the silvery altos pierced through the great volume of sound like arrows of song. Return, return, return, called the choristers, louder and higher and clearer, and ended with a magnificent burst of harmony, with a sublime proclamation, the Lord hath redeemed Jacob and glorified himself in Israel. When the white-robed singers resumed their seats, the organ still continued to peel forth triumphant notes, which died away in gentle murmurs. It was like the passing by of a tempest, the stilling of the ocean after a storm. Mr. Kargrim preached the sermon, and with a vivid recollection of his present enterprise, waxed eloquent on the ominous text, Be sure thy sin will find thee out. His belief that the bishop was guilty of some crime, for the concealment of which he intended to bribe genthdom, had been strengthened by an examination on that very morning of the checkbook. Dr. Pendle had departed on horseback for Southbury after an early breakfast, and after hurriedly dispatching his own, Kargrim had hastened to the library. Here, as he expected, he found the checkbook carelessly left in an unlocked drawer of the desk, and on looking over it, he found that one of the butts had been torn out. The previous butt bore a date immediately preceding that of Dr. Pendle's departure for London, so Kargrim had little difficulty in concluding that the bishop had drawn the next check in London, and had torn out the butt to which it had been attached. This showed, as the chaplain very truly thought, that Dr. Pendle was desirous of concealing not only the amount of the check, since he had kept no note of the sum on the butt, but of hiding the fact that the check had been drawn at all. This conduct, coupled with the fact of Gentham's allusion to Tom Tiddler's Ground and his snatch of extempoor song, confirmed Kargrim in his suspicions that Pendle had visited London for the purpose of drawing out a large sum of money, and intended to pay the same over to Gentham that very night on Southbury Heath. With this in his mind, it was no wonder that Kargrim preached a stirring sermon. He repeated his warning text over and over again. He illustrated it in the most brilliant fashion, and his appeals to those who had secret sense to confess them at once were quite heart-rending in their pathos.  If Bishop Pendle had only been seated on his throne to hear that sermon, Kargrim would have been thoroughly satisfied. But alas, the bishop, worthy man, was confirming innocent sinners at Southbury, and thus lost any chance he might have had of profiting by his chaplain's eloquence. However, the congregation could not be supposed to know the secret source of the chaplain's eloquence, and his withering denunciations were supposed to arise from a consciousness of his own pure and open heart. The female admirers of Kargrim particularly dwelt in after-church gossip on this presumed cause of the excellent sermon they had heard, and when the preacher appeared, he was congratulated on all sides. Miss Tankred for once forgot her purse-story and absolutely squeaked in the highest of keys in her efforts to make the young man understand the amount of pleasure he had given her. Even Mrs. Pensey was pleased to express her approval of so well-chosen a text, and looked significantly at several of her friends, as she remarked that she hoped they would take its warning to heart. George came upon his father's chaplain, grinning like a heathen idol, in the midst of a tempestuous ocean of petticoats, and the bland way in which he sniffed up the incense of praise showed how grateful such homage was to his vain nature. At that moment he saw himself a future bishop, and that at no very great distance of time. Indeed, had the election of such apprelet been in the hand of his admirers, he would have been elevated that very moment to the nearest vacant Episcopalian throne. Captain Pendle looked on contemptuously at this priest worship. The sneaking cad, he thought, sneering at the excellent cargram, I daresay he thinks he is the greatest man in Burmester just now. He looks as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. There was no love lost between the chaplain and the captain, for on several occasions the latter had found cargram a slippery customer, and lax in his notions of honour, while the curate, knowing that he had not been clever enough to hoodwink George, hated him with all the fervour and malice of his petty soul. However, he hoped soon to have the power to wound Captain Pendle through his father, so he could afford to smile blandly in response to the young soldier's contemptuous look. And he smiled more than ever when brisk Miss Wichelow, with her small face, ruddy as a winter apple, marched up and joined in the congratulations.  I looked into my mind to see what sins I had committed. And found none, I'm sure, said the courtly chaplain. You would have found one if you had looked long enough, growled Mrs. Pansy, who hated the old maid as a rival practitioner amongst the poor. And that is, you did not bring your niece to hear the sermon. I don't call such carelessness Christianity. Don't look at my sins through a microscope, Mrs. Pansy. I did not bring mad because she is not well. Oh really, dear Miss Wichelow, chimed in, Daisy Norsham.  You need dieting, retorted Miss Wichelow, with a disparaging glance.  If it isn't powder, it's bad digestion. Miss Wichelow cried the outrage, Spenster. I'm an old woman, my dear, and you must allow me to speak my mind. I'm sure Mrs. Pansy always does. You need not be so very unpleasant. No, really. The truth is always unpleasant, said Mrs. Pansy, who could not forebear a thrust even at her own guest. But Miss Wichelow doesn't often hear it, with a dig at her rival. Come away, Daisy. Mr. Cargram, next time you preach take for your text, the tongue is a two-edged sword. Do, Mr. Cargram, cried Miss Wichelow, darting an angry glance at Mrs. Pansy, and illustrated with the one to whom it particularly applies. Ladies, ladies, remonstrated Cargram, while both combatants ruffled their plumes like two fighting cocks, and the more timid of the spectators scuttled out of the way. How the situation would have ended, it is impossible to say, as the two ladies were equally matched. But George saved it by advancing to greet Miss Wichelow. When the little woman saw him, she darted forward and shook his hand with unthainted warmth. My dear Captain Pendle, she cried, I am so glad to see you, and thank you for your noble conduct of last night. Why, Miss Wichelow, it was nothing, murmured the modest hero. Indeed, I must say it was very valiant, said Cargram graciously. Do you know, ladies, that Miss Arden was attacked last night by a tramp, and Captain Pendle knocked him down? Oh, really, how very sweet! cried Daisy, casting an admiring look at George's handsome face, which appealed to her appreciation of manly beauty. What was Miss Arden doing to place herself in the position of being attacked by a tramp? asked Mrs. Pansy in a hard voice. This must be looked into. Thank you, Mrs. Pansy, I have looked into it myself, said Miss Wichelow.  Both gentlemen bowed and accepted, the former because he wished to see ma'am, the latter because he knew that Captain Pendle did not want him to come. As Miss Wichelow moved off with her two guests, Mrs. Pansy exclaimed in a loud voice, Poor young men, luncheon indeed, they will be starved. I know for a fact that she weighs out the food in scales. Then, having had the last word, she went home in triumph. End of Chapter 10 The little lady trotted briskly across the square and guided her guests to a quaint old house squeezed into one corner of it. Here she had been born some sixty odd years before. Here she had lived her life of spinsterhood, save for an occasional visit to London. And here she hoped to die, although at present she kept death at a safe distance by hygienic means and dietary treatment.  Its roof shot up into a high gable at an acute angle and was tiled with red clay squares mellowed by time to the hue of rusty iron. Along lattice with diamond panes and geraniums in flower pots behind them, extended across the lower story. Two little jutting windows, also the crisscross pattern, looked like two eyes in the second story, and high up in the third, the casement of the attic peered out coyly from under the eaves. At the top of a flight of immaculately white steps, there was a squat little door painted green and adorned with a brass knocker burnished to the color of fine gold. The railings of iron round the area were also colored green, and the appearance of the whole exterior was as spotless and neat as Miss Wigelow herself. It was an ideal house for a dainty old spinster such as she was, and rested in the very shadow of the Bishop Gandolf's Cathedral, like the nest of a bright-eyed wren. Mab, my dear, cried the wren herself as she led the gentleman into the drawing-room, I have brought Captain Pendle and Mr. Cargram to luncheon. Mab arose out of a deep chair and laid aside the book she was reading. I saw you crossing the square, Captain Pendle, she said, shaking his hand. Mr. Cargram, I am glad to see you. Are you not glad to see me, whispered George in low tones? Do you need me to tell you so? was Mab's reply, with a smile, and that smile answered his question. Oh, my dear, such a heavenly sermon! cried Miss Wigelow, fluttering about the room, it went to my very heart. It could not have gone to a better place, replied the chaplain in the gentle voice which George particularly detested. I am sorry to hear you have suffered from your alarm last night, Miss Arden. My nurse received rather a shock, Mr. Cargram, and I had such a bad headache that I decided to remain at home. I must receive your sermon second hand from my aunt. Why not first hand from me, said Cargram insinuatingly, whereupon Captain George pulled his moustache and looked savage. Oh, I won't tax your good nature so far, rejoined Mab laughing. What is it, auntie? For the wren was still fluttering and restless. My dear, you must content yourself with Captain Pendle till luncheon, for I want Mr. Cargram to come into the garden and see my fig tree. Real figs grow on it, Mr. Cargram, said Miss Wigelow solemnly, the very first figs that have ever ripened in Burmenster. I am glad it is not a barren fig tree, said Cargram, introducing a scriptural allusion, in his most clerical manner. Barren indeed it has five figs on it. Really, sitting under its shade, one would fancy one was in Palestine. Do come, Mr. Cargram, and Miss Wigelow fluttered through the door, like an escaping bird. With pleasure, the more so as I know we shall not be missed. Damn, muttered Captain Pendle when the door closed on Cargram's smile and insinuating looks. Captain Pendle, exclaimed Miss Arden, becomingly shocked. Captain Pendle indeed, said the young man, slipping his arm round Mab, and why not George? I thought Mr. Cargram might hear.    Well, you need not swear at him. If I didn't swear, I'd kick him, Mab, and think of the scandal to the church. Cargram's a sneaking, time-serving sycophant. I wonder my father can endure him. I can't. I don't like him myself, confessed Mab, as they seated themselves in the window seat. I should think not, cried Captain George, in so deliberate and disgusted atone that Mab laughed. Whereat he kissed her and was reproved, so that both betook themselves to argument as to the righteousness or unrighteousness of kissing on a Sunday. George Pendle was a tall, slim, and very good-looking young man, in every sense of the word. He was as fair as Mab was dark, with bright blue eyes and a bronze skin, against which his smartly pointed mustache appeared, by contrast, almost white. With his upright figure, his alert military air, and merry smile, he looked an extremely handsome and desirable lover.  But if men had to request favors of this sort, there would not be much kissing in the world. Moreover, stolen kisses, like stolen fruit, have a peckent flavor of their own. The quaint old drawing-room, with its low ceiling and twilight atmosphere, was certainly an ideal place for love-making. It was furnished with chairs and tables and couches, which had done duty in the days of Miss Wichelot's grandparents, and if the carpet was old, so much the better, for its once brilliant tents had faded into soft hues more restful to the eye. In one corner stood the grandfather of all pianos, with a front of drawn green silk, fluted to a central button. Beside it, a prim canterbury filled with primely-bound books of yellow-paged music containing The Battle of the Prague, The Maiden's Prayer, Cherry Rite, and The Canary Bird's Quadrilles. Such tinkling melodies had been the delight of Miss Wichelot's youth, and, as she had a fine finger for the piano, her own observation, she sometimes tinkled them now on the jingling old piano when old friends came to see her. Also there were Chippendale cupboards with glass doors filled with a most wonderful collection of old China, older even than their owner. Chinese jars heaped up with dried rose-leaves, spreading around a perfume of dead summers, bright silken screens from far Japan, footstools and fender stools worked in worsted, which tripped up the unwary, and a number of oil paintings valuable rather for age than beauty.  From the yellow silk fire-screen swinging on a rosewood pole to the drowsy old canary, chirping feebly in his brass cage at the window, all was old world and marvelously proper and genteel. With all a quiet perfume-droom, delightful to make love in to the most beautiful woman in the world, as Captain George Pendle knew very well.  I know nothing of this sort, my dearest prude. You are the only woman I ever intend to marry. Have you any objections? If so, I should like to hear them. I am two years older than you, George. A man is as old as he looks, a woman as she feels. I am quite convinced, Miss Arden, that you feel nineteen years of age, so the disparity rests rather on my shoulders than on yours. You don't look old, laughed Mab, letting her hand lie in that of her lovers. But I feel old, old enough to marry you, my dear. What is your next objection? Your father does not know that you love me. My mother does, Lucy does, and with two women to persuade him, my dear kind old father will gladly consent to the match. I have no money. My dearest, neither have I. Two negatives make an affirmative, and that affirmative is to be uttered by you when I ask if I may tell the Bishop that you are willing to become a soldier's wife. Oh, George! cried Mab anxiously. It is a very serious matter. You know how particular your father is about birth and family. My parents are dead. I never knew them. For my father died before I was born, and my mother followed him to the grave when I was a year old. If my dear mother's sister had not taken charge of me and brought me up, I should very likely have gone on the parish. For, as Auntie says, my parents were paupers. My lovely pauper, what is all this to me? Here is your answer to all the nuns that you have been talking, and George, with the proverbial boldness of a soldier, laid a font kiss on the charming face so near to his own. Oh, George! began the scandalized Mab for the fifth time, at least, and was about to reprove her audacious lover again, when Miss Witchellow bustled into the room, followed by the black shadow of the parson. George and Mab sprang apart with alacrity, and each wondered, while admiring the cathedral opposite, if Miss Witchellow or Kargrim had heard the sound of that stolen kiss. Apparently the dear unsuspecting old Ginny Wren had not, for she hopped up to the pair in her bird-like fashion, and took George's arm. Come, good people, she said briskly, luncheon is ready, and so are your appetites, I have no doubt. Mr. Kargrim, take in my niece. In five minutes the quartet were seated round a small table in Miss Witchellow's small dining-room.  The curtains and carpet and cushions were a faded crimson rep, and as the gaily striped sun-lines were down, the hole was enwrapped in a sober brown atmosphere, restful to the eye, and cool to the skin. The oval table was covered with a snow-white cloth, on which sparkled silver and crystal round a nankin porcelain bowl of blue and white, filled with deep red roses. The dinner-plates were of thin china, painted with sprawling dragons in yellow and green. The food, in spite of Mrs. Pansy's report, was plentiful and dainty, and the wines came from the stock laid down by the father of the hostess in the days when dignitaries of the church knew what good wine was. It is true that a neat pair of brass scales was placed beside Miss Witchellow, but she used them to weigh out such portions of food as she judged to be needful for herself, and did not mar her hospitality by interfering with the appetite of her guests. The rapast was tempting, the company congenial, and the two young men enjoyed themselves greatly. Miss Witchellow was an entertainer worth knowing, if only for her cook. Mab, my dear, cried the lively old lady, I am ashamed of your appetite. Don't you feel better for your morning's rest? Much better, thank you, auntie, but it is too hot to eat. Try some salad, my love, it is cool and green and excellent for the blood. If I had my way, people would eat more green stuff than they do. Like so many Nebuchadnezzar's suggested cargram, always scriptural. Well, some kinds of grass are edible, you know, Mr. Cargram, although we need not go on all fours to eat them as he did. So many people would need to revert to their natural characters of animals if that custom came in, said George Smiling.  Then Mrs. Pansy is a magpie, cried Mab, with an arch-look at her aunt. She is a magpie and a fox and a laughing-eye-ina, my dear. Oh, auntie, what a trinity! I suppose, Cargram, all you black-coated parson's are rooks, said George. No doubt, captain, and you soldiers are lions.  Captain Pendle, protect me, laughed Mrs. Arden. I declined to be called a peacock.  Ah, that is a pretty compliment, Captain Pendle. Thank you. While George laughed and Cargram, rather tired of these zoological comparisons, strove to change the subject by an allusion to the adventure of the previous night. The man who attacked you was certainly a wolf, he said decisively. Who was the man, asked Miss Witchellow, carefully weighing herself some cheese. Some tramp who has been in the wars, replied to George carelessly, a discharged soldier, I daresay. At least he had a long-read scar on his villainous-looking face. I saw it in the moonlight, marking him as with the brand of cane. A scar, repeated Miss Witchellow, in so altered a tone that Cargram stared at her and hastened to explain further so as to learn, if possible, the meaning of her strange look. A scar on the right cheek, he said slowly, from the ear to the mouth. What kind of a looking man is, he said, the old lady, pushing away her plate with a nervous gesture.  He talks like an educated person. You seem to know all about him, Cargram, said Captain Pindle, in some surprise, while Miss Witchellow, her rosy face, pale and scared, sat silently staring at the tablecloth. I have several times been to an hotel called the Darby Winner, explained the chaplain, to see a sick woman, and there I came across this scab several times. He stays there, I believe. What is his name? asked Miss Witchellow hoarsely. Gentham, I have been informed. Gentham, I don't know the name. I don't suppose you know the man, either, auntie. No, my love, replied Miss Witchellow in a low voice. I don't suppose I know the man, either. Is he still at the Darby Winner, Mr. Cargram? I believe so. He portions his time between that hotel and a gypsy camp on Southbury Common. What is he doing here? Really, my dear lady, I do not know. Auntie, one would think you knew the man, said Mab, amazed at her aunt's emotion. No, Mab, I do not, said Miss Witchellow vehemently, more so than the remark warranted, but if he attacks people on the high road, he should certainly be shut up. Well, good people, she added, with an attempt at her former lively manner. If you are finished, we will return to the drawing room. All attempts to restore the earlier harmony of the visit failed, for the conversation languished, and Miss Witchellow was silent and distraught. The young men shortly took their leave, and the old lady seemed glad to be rid of them. Outside, George and Cargram separated, as neither was anxious for the other's company. As the chaplain walked to the palace, he reflected on the strange conduct of Miss Witchellow. She knows something about genthem, he thought. I wonder if she has a secret, too. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12. Bell Mosque Pays a Visit Although the palace was so near Burmenster, and the sphere of Gabriel's labors lay in the vicinity of the cathedral, Bishop Pendle did not judge it wise that his youngest son should dwell beneath the paternal roof. To teach him independence, to strengthen his will and character, and because he considered that a clergyman should, to a certain extent, share the lot of those amongst whom he labored, the bishop arranged that Gabriel should inhabit lodgings in the old town, not far from the derby winner. It was by reason of this contiguity that Gabriel became acquainted with the handsome bar maid of the hotel, and as he was a more weak-natured man than his father dreamed of, it soon came about that he fell in love with the girl. Matters between them had gone much further than even cargram with all his suspicions guessed, for in the skillful hands of Miss Mosque the curate was as clay, and for some time he had been engaged to his charmer. No one knew this, not even Miss Mosque, for the fair Belle was quite capable of keeping a secret. But Gabriel was firmly bound to her by honour, and Belle possessed a ring which she kept in the drawer of her looking-glass and wore in secret as symbol of an engagement she did not dare to reveal. On Sunday evening she arrayed herself in her best garments, and putting on this ring told her mother that she was going to church. At first, Miss Mosque feebly objected as her husband was away in Southbury, and would not be back all night. But as Belle declared that she wanted some amusement after working hard at pulling beer all the week, Miss Mosque gave way. She did not approve of Belle's mention of evening service as amusement, but she did approve of her going to church. So when the young lady had exhibited herself to the invalid in all her finery, she went away in the greatest good humour. As the evening was hot she had put on a dress of pale blue muslin adorned with white ribbons, a straw hat with many flowers and feathers, and to finish off her costume her gloves and shoes and sunshade were white. As these cool colours rather toned down the extreme red of her healthy complexion she really looked very well, and when Gabriel saw her seated in a pew near the pulpit, behaving as demurely as a cat that is after cream, he could not but think how pretty and pious she was. It was probably the first time that Piety had ever been associated with Belle's character, although she was not a bad girl on the whole. But that Gabriel should gift her with such equality showed how green and innocent he was as regards the sex. The church in which he preached was an ancient building at the foot of the hill, crowned by the cathedral. It was built of rough grey stone in the Norman style of architecture, and very little had been done to adorn it, either within or without, as the worshippers were few and poor and low church in their tendencies. Those who liked pomp and colour and ritual could find all three in the minster, so there was no necessity to hold elaborate services in this grey cold little chapel. In her heart Belle preferred the cathedral with its music and choir, its many celebrants and fashionable congregation, but out of diplomacy she came to sit under Gabriel and follow him as her spiritual guide. Nevertheless she thought less of him in this capacity than as a future husband likely to raise her to a position worthy of her beauty and merits, of both of which she entertained a most excellent opinion. As usual the pews were half empty, but Gabriel, being a devout person, performed the service with much earnestness. He read the lessons, led his voice to the assistants of the meager choir, and preached a short but sensible discourse which pleased everyone. Belle did not hear much of it, for her mind was busy with hopes that Gabriel would shortly induce his father to receive her as a daughter-in-law. It is true that she saw difficulties in the way, but to a clever woman like herself she did not think them unconquerable. Having gone so far as to engage herself to the young man, she was determined to go to the whole length and benefit as much as possible for her sacrifice, as she thought it, of accepting the somewhat trying position of a curate's wife. With her bold good looks and aggressive love of dress and amusement, Belle was hardly the type likely to do credit to a parsonage, but any doubts on that score never entered her vain mind. When the service was over and the sparse congregation had dwindled away, she went round to the vestry and asked Jarper, the cross-old verger, if she could see Mr. Pendle, Jarper who took up eternal interest in the curate, and did not like Miss Mosque over much, since she stented him of his full measure of beer when he patronized her father's hotel, replied in surly tones that Mr. Pendle was tired and could see no one. But I must see him, persisted Belle, who was as obstinate as a mule. My mother is very ill. Then why to estate to home and look out at her? She sent me out to ask Mr. Pendle to see her, and I want none of your insolence, Jacob Jarper. Don't he be bold, Miss Mosque. I have been verge of here these sixty years. I have. I don't want to be told my duty by such as you. Such as me indeed, cried Belle, with a flash of the paternal temper, if I wasn't a lady, I'd give you a piece of my mind. Chuckled Jarper, beers as you're all ladies by your own way of showing, not that you're handsome, far be it from me to say as you ain't, but must it Pendle, well, that's a different matter. At this moment Gabriel put an end to what threatened to develop into a quarrel by appearing at the vestry door. On learning that Mrs. Mosque wished to see him, he readily consented to accompany Belle, but as he had some business to attend to at the church before he went, he asked Belle to wait for a few minutes.  I am hungry, Mr. Pendle, confessed Jarper, and ain't at my time of life as old folks should stop. I've locked up the whole church clipped in the vestry door, and here's the key locked. Be careful with the light and put it out, Mr. Pendle, for if you burn down the church, what good is fine sermons I'd like to know. It will be all right, Jarper. I'll give you the key to-morrow. Good night. Good night, Jarper, chimed in Belle in her most stately manner. Thank you, Mr. Pendle, good night, but I don't want no beer from you this evening, Miss Belle Mosque, growled the old man, and chuckling over this exhibition of wit, he hobbled away to his supper. These common people are most insolent, said Belle, with an affectation of fine ladyism. Let us go into the vestry, Gabriel. I wish to speak to you.  Belle, please don't use such language, remonstrated Gabriel, as he conducted her into the vestry, someone might hear. I don't care if someone does, retorted Miss Mosque, taking a chair near the flaring, spluttering gas jet, but I tell you there is no one about. I wouldn't be here alone with you if there were. I'm as careful of my own reputation as I am of yours, I can tell you. Is your mother ill again? asked Gabriel, arranging some sheets of paper on the table, and changing the conversation. Oh, she's no better and no worse, but you better come and see her, so that folks won't be talking of my having spoken to you. A cat can't look at a jug in this town without they think she's after the cream. You wish to speak with me, Belle? Yes, I do. Come and sit alongside of me. Gabriel, being very much in love, obeyed with the greatest willingness, and when he sat down under the gas jet, would have taken Belle in his arms, but that she evaded his clasp. There's no time for anything of that sort, my dear, said she sharply. We've got to talk business, you and I. We have. Business about our engagement? You've hit it, Gabriel. That's the business I wish to understand. How long is this sort of thing going on? What sort of thing? Now don't pretend to misunderstand me, cried Belle, with a servity, or you and I shall fall out of the cart. What sort of thing indeed? Why, my engagement to you being kept secret. You're pretending to visit mother when it's me you want. My being obliged to hide the ring you gave me from father's eyes. That's the sort of thing, Mr. Gabriel Pendle. I know it is a painful position, dearest, but painful position echoed to the girl contemptuously. Oh, I don't care too straws about the painful position. It's the danger I'm thinking about. Danger? What do you mean? Danger from whom? From Mrs. Pansy. From Mr. Cargroom.  I don't want to lose my character. Belle, no one dares say a word against your character. I should think not, retorted to Miss Mosque firing up. I'd have the law on them if they did. I can look after myself, I hope, and there's no man I know likely to get the better of me. I don't say I'm an aristocrat, Gabriel, but I'm an honest girl, and as good a lady as any of them. I'll make you a first-class wife in spite of my bringing up. Gabriel kissed her. My darling Belle, you are the sweetest and cleverest woman in the world. You know how I adore you. Belle knew very well, for she was sharp enough to distinguish between genuine and spurious affection. Strange as it may appear, the refined and educated young clergyman was deeply in love with this handsome, bold woman of the people. Some lovers of flowers prefer full-blown roses, ripe and red, to the most exquisite buds. Gabriel's tastes were the same, and he admired the florid beauty of Belle with all the ardour of his young and impetuous heart. He was blind to her liking for incongruous colours and dress. He was deaf to her bold expressions and defects and grammar. What lured him was her ripe, rich, exuberant beauty. What charmed him was the flash of her white teeth and the brilliancy of her eyes when she smiled. What dominated him was her strong will and practical way of looking on worldly affairs. Opposite natures are often attracted to one another by the very fact that they are so undeniably unlike, and the very characteristics in Belle which pleased Gabriel were those which he lacked himself. Undoubtedly he loved her, but it may be asked, did she love him? And that is the more difficult question to answer. Candidly speaking, Belle had an affection for Gabriel. She liked his good looks, his refined voice, his very weakness of character was not unpleasing to her. But she did not love him sufficiently to marry him for himself alone. What she wished to marry was the gentleman, the clergyman, the son of the Bishop of Berminster, and unless Gabriel could give her all the pleasures and delights attendant on his worldly position, she was not prepared to become Mrs. Gabriel Pendle. It was to make this clear to him, to clinch the bargain, to show that she was willing to barter her milk-made beauty and strong common sense for his position and possible money that she had come to see him. Not being bemused with love, Belle Mosque was thoroughly practical, and so spoke very much to the point. Never was there so prosaic an interview. Well, it just comes to this, she said, determinedly, I'm not going to be kept in the background serving out beer any longer. If I am worth marrying, I am worth acknowledging, and that's just what you've got to do, Gabriel. But my father faltered Gabriel nervously, for he saw in a flash the difficulties of his position. What about your father? He can't eat me, can he? He can cut me off with a shilling, my dear, and that's just what he will do if he knows I'm engaged to you. Surely, Belle, with your strong common sense, you can see that for yourself. Of course I see it, retorted to Belle sharply, for the speech was not flattering to her vanity. All the same something must be done. We must wait.  Gabriel rose to his feet and began to pace to and fro. You cannot desire our marriage more than I do, he said fondly. I wish to make you my wife and as public a manner as possible. But you know I have only a small income as a curate, and would not wish us to begin life on a pittance. I should think not. I've had enough of cutting and contriving. But how do you intend to get enough for us to marry on? My father has promised me the rectorship of Heathcroft. The present incumbent is old and cannot possibly live long. I believe he'll live on, just to spite us, grumbled Belle. How much is the living worth? Six hundred a year? There's also the rectory, you know. Well, I daresay we can manage on that, Gabriel. Perhaps, after all, it will be best to wait. But I don't like it. Neither do I, my dear. If you like, I'll tell my father and marry you to-morrow. Then you would lose Heathcroft. It's extremely probable I would, replied Gabriel dryly. In that case, we'll wait, said Belle, springing up briskly. I don't suppose that old man is immoral, and I'm willing to stick to you for another twelve months. Belle, I thought you loved me sufficiently to accept any position.   When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window. That's as true as true. No, we'll wait till the old rector dies, but if he lasts longer than twelve months, I'll lose heart and have to look about me for another husband in my own rank of life. Belle, said Gabriel in a pained voice, you are cruel. Rubbish, replied the practical barmaid. I'm sensible. Now, come and see mother. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 13 A Stormy Night Having given Gabriel plainly to understand the terms upon which she was prepared to continue their secret engagement, Belle kissed him once or twice to soften the rigor of her speech. Then she intimated that she would return alone to the derby winner, and that Gabriel could follow after a reasonable interval of time had elapsed. She also explained the meaning of these precautions. If the old cats of the town saw you and I walking along on Sunday night, said she, at the door of the vestry, they would screech out that we were keeping company, and in any case would couple our names together. If they did, father would make it so warm for me that I should have to tell the truth, and then, well, added Miss Mosque with a brilliant smile, you know his temper and my temper. You are sure it is quite safe for you to go home alone? said Gabriel, who was infected with the upper class prejudice that every unmarried girl should be provided with a chaperone. Safe, echoed the dauntless Belle in a tone of supreme contempt, my dear Gabriel, I'll be safe in the middle of Timbuktu. There are many of these rough harvest labours about here, you know. I'll slap their faces if they speak to me. I'd like to see them try it, that's all. And now, good-bye for the present, dear. I must get home as soon as possible, for there is a storm coming, and I don't want to get my Sunday go-to-meat-in-clothes spoiled. When she slipped off, like a white ghost, into the gathering darkness, Gabriel remained at the door and looked up at the fast-clouding sky. It was now about nine o'clock, and the night was hot and thundery, and so airless that it was difficult to breathe. Overhead, masses of dark cloud, heavy with storm, hung low down over the town, and the earth, panting and worn out with the heat, waited thirstily for the cool drench of the rain. Evidently a witch tempest was brewing in the halls of heaven on no small scale, and Gabriel wished that it would break at once to relieve the strain from which nature seemed to suffer. Whether it was the fatigue of his day's labour, or the late interview with Belv, which depressed him, he did not know, but he felt singularly pessimistic, and his mind was filled with premonitions of ill. Like most people with highly strong natures, Gabriel was easily affected by atmospheric influence, so no doubt the palpable electricity in the dry hot air depressed his nerves. But whether this was the cause of his restlessness he could not say. He felt anxious and melancholy, and was worried by a sense of coming ill, though what such ill might be, or from what quarter it would come, he knew not. While thus gloomily contemplative, the great bell of the cathedral boomed out nine deep strokes, and the hollow sound breaking in on his reflections made him wake up, shake off his dismal thoughts, and sent him inside to attend to his work. Yet the memory of those forebodings occurred to him often in after-days, and read by the light of after-events, he was unable to decide whether the expectation of evil, so strongly forced upon him then, was due to natural or supernatural causes. At present he ascribed his anxieties to the disturbed state of the atmosphere. In the meantime, Bell, who was a healthy young woman, with no nerves to be affected by the atmosphere, walked swiftly homeward along the airless streets. There were few people on their feet, for the night was too close for exercise, and the majority of the inhabitants sat in chairs before their doors, weary and out of temper. Nature and her creatures were waiting for the windows of the firmament to be opened, for the air to be cleansed, for light to be renewed. Bell met none of the harvesters and was not molested in any way. Had she been spoken to or hustled, there is no doubt she would have been as good as her word and had slapped her assailant's face. Fortunately, there was no need for her to proceed to such extremes. At the door of the derby winner she was rather surprised to find Ms. Wichelow waiting for her. The little old lady wore her poke vomit and old fashioned black silk cloak, and appeared anxious and nervous and altogether unlike her usual cheery self. Bell liked Ms. Wichelow as much as she disliked Mrs. Pansy. Therefore, she greeted her with unfaithful pleasure, although she could not help expressing her surprise that the visitor was in that quarter of the town so late at night. Ms. Wichelow produced a parcel from under her voluminous cloak and offered it as an explanation of her presence.  I was informed that she was asleep, so, not wishing to disturb her, I waited until you returned. It is very kind of you to take so much trouble, Ms. Wichelow, said Bell, gratefully, receiving the jelly. I hope you have not been waiting long. Only ten minutes your servant told me that you would return soon. I had been to church and stopped after service to talk to some friends, Ms. Wichelow. Won't you come in for a few minutes? I'll see if my mother is awake. Thank you, I'll come in for a time, but do not waken your mother on my account. Sleep is always the best medicine in case of sickness. I hope Mrs. Mosque is careful of her diet. Well, she eats very little. That is wise, very little food, but that little nourishing and frequently administered. Give her a cup of beef tea two or three times in the night, my dear, and you'll find it will sustain the body wonderfully. I'll remember to do so, replied Bell, gratefully, although she had no intention of remaining awake all night to eat beef tea and dose her mother with it, especially as the invalid was not ill enough for such extreme measures. But she was so touched by Ms. Wichelow's kindness that she would not have offended her by scouting her prescription for the world. By this time Ms. Wichelow was seated in a little private parlor off the bar, illuminated by an oil lamp. This Bell turned up, and then she noticed that her visitor looked anxious and ill at ease. Once or twice she attempted to speak, but closed her mouth again. Bell wondered if Mrs. Pansy had been at work, coupling her name with that of Gabriel's, and whether Ms. Wichelow had come down to relieve her conscience by warning her against seeing too much of a curet. But as she knew very well, Ms. Wichelow was too nervous and too much of a lady to give her opinion on questions unasked, and therefore banishing the defiant look which had begun to harden her face, she waited to hear if it was any other reason than bestowing the jelly which had brought the little old spinsters whose so disreputable a quarter of the town at so untoward an hour. Finally Ms. Wichelow's real reason for calling came out by degrees, and in true feminine fashion she approached the main point by side issues. Uh, is your father in, Ms. Moss? She asked, clasping and unclasping her hands, feverishly, on her lap. No, Ms. Wichelow. He wrote over this afternoon to Southbury on business, and we do not expect him back till tomorrow morning. Poor father! sighed Belle. He went away in anything but good spirits, for he is terribly worried over money matters. The payment of his rent is troubling him perhaps? Yes, Ms. Wichelow. This is an expensive hotel, and the rent is high. We find it so difficult to make the place pay that we are behind hand with the rent. Sir Harry Brace, our landlord, has been very kind in waiting, but we can't expect him to stand out of his money much longer. I'm afraid in the end we'll have to give up the Darby winner. But it is no good my worrying you about our troubles concluded, Belle, in a more vivacious tone. What do you wish to see father about, Ms. Wichelow? Anything that I can do? Well, my dear, it is this way, said the old lady nervously. You know that I have a much larger income than I need, and that I am always ready to help the deserving. Oh, I know, Ms. Wichelow, you give help where Mrs. Pansy only gives advice. I know who is most thought of that I do. Mrs. Pansy has her own methods of dispensing charity, Ms. Mosque. Tracks and interference, muttered Belle under her breath, Mevelson, old Tabby, that she is. Mr. Cargram was at my house today, as I told you, pursued Ms. Wichelow, not having heard this remark, and he mentioned a man called Gentham as a poor creature in need of help. He's a poor creature, I daresay, said Ms. Mosque, tossing her head, for he owes father more money than he can pay, although he does say that he'll settle his bill next week. But he's a bad lot. A bad lot, Ms. Mosque. As bad as they make him, Ms. Wichelow, don't you give him a penny, for he'll only waste it on drink. Does he drink to excess? I should think so. He finishes a bottle of brandy every day. Oh, Ms. Mosque, how very dreadful, cried Ms. Wichelow, quite in the style of Daisy Norsham. Why is he staying in Burmenster? I don't know, but it's for no good, you may be sure. If he isn't here, he's hobnobbing with those gypsy wretches who have a camp on Southbury Common. Mother Jail and he are always together. Can you describe him, asked Ms. Wichelow, with some hesitation? He is tall and thin, with a dark, wicked looking face, and he has a nasty scar on the right cheek, slanting across it to the mouth. But the funny thing is, that with all his rags and drunkenness, there is something of the gentleman about him. I don't like him, yet I can't dislike him. He's attractive in his own way from his very wickedness.  He has done a great deal of damage in his time, both to men and women. I'm as sure of that as I sit here, though I can give no reason for saying so. Ms. Wichelow listened to this graphic description in silence. She was very pale, and held her handkerchief to her mouth with one trembling hand. The other beat nervously on her lap, and it was only by a strong effort of will that she managed to conquer her emotion. I dare say you are right, she observed in a tremulous voice. Indeed, I might have expected as much. For last night he frightened my niece and her maid on the high road. I thought it would be best to give him money and send him away, so that so evil a man should not remain here to be a source of danger to the town. Give him money, cried Miss Mosque. I'd give him the cat of nine-tails if I had my way. Don't you trouble about him, Ms. Wichelow? He's no good. But if I could see him, I might soften his heart, pleaded the old lady, very much in earnest. Soften a brick-bat, rejoined Belle. You'd have just as much success with one as with the other. Besides, you can't see him, Ms. Wichelow, at all events not tonight, for he's on the common with his nasty gypsies, and won't be back till the morning. I wish he'd stay away altogether, I do. In that case I shall not trouble about him, said the old lady, rising. On some future occasion I may see him. But you need not say I was asking for him, Miss Mosque. I won't say a word.  Oh, he mustn't do that. He mustn't come there, cried Miss Wichelow, alarmed. He won't, for I'll hold my tongue. You can rest easy on that score, Miss Wichelow. But my advice is, don't pick him up out of the mire. He'll only fall back into it again. You have a bad opinion of him, Miss Mosque. The very worst, replied Belle, inducting her guest to the door, he's a jailbird, and a scallywag, and all that's bad. Well, good night, Miss Wichelow, and thank you for the jelly. There is no need for thanks, Miss Mosque. Good night. And the old lady tripped up the street, keeping in the middle of it, lest any robber should spring out on her from the shadow of the houses. The storm was coming nearer, and soon would break directly over the town, for flashes of lightning were weaving fiery patterns against the black clouds, and every now and then a horse-growl of thunder went grinding across the sky. Anxious to escape the coming downfall, Miss Wichelow climbed up the street towards the cathedral as quickly and steadily as her old legs could carry her. Just as she emerged into the close, a shadow blacker than the blackness of the night glided past her. A zigzag of lightning cut the sky at the moment, and revealed the face of Mr. Cargram, who in his turn recognized the old lady in the bluish glare. Miss Wichelow, he exclaimed, what a surprise. You may well say that, Mr. Cargram, replied the old lady with a nervous movement, for the sound of his voice and the sudden view of his face startled her not a little. It is not often I am out at this hour, but I have been taking some jelly to Mrs. Mosque.  I hope she is better. I think so, but I did not see her as she is asleep. I spoke with her daughter, however. I trust you were not molested by that ruffian gentham, who stays at the Derby Winter, said Cargram, with hypocritical anxiety. Oh, no, he is away on Southbury Heath with his gypsy friends, I believe. At least, Miss Mosque told me so. Good night, Mr. Cargram, she added, evidently not anxious to prolong the conversation. I wish to get under shelter before the storm breaks. Let me see you to your door, at least. Miss Wichelow rejected this officious offer by dryly remarking that she had accomplished the worst part of her journey, and bidding the chaplain good night, tripped across the square to her own Jenny Wren nest. Cargram looked after her with a doubtful look, as she vanished into the darkness. Then, turning on his heel, walked swiftly down the street towards Eastgate. He had as much aversion to getting wet as a cat, and put his best foot foremost so as to reach the palace before the rain came on. Besides, it was ten o'clock, a late hour for a respectable person to be abroad. She's been trying to see gentham, thought Mr. Cargram, recalling Miss Wichelow's nervous hesitation. I wonder what she knows about him. The man is a mystery, and is in Burminster for no good purpose. Miss Wichelow and the Bishop both know that purpose, I'm certain. Well, well, two secrets are better than one, and if I gain a knowledge of them both, I may inhabit Heathcraw Rectory sooner than I expect. Cargram's meditations were here cut short by the falling of heavy drops of rain, and he put all his mind into his muscles to travel the faster. Indeed, he almost ran through the new town, and was soon out on the country road which conducted to the palace. But in spite of all his speed the rain caught him, for with an incessant play of lightning and a constant roll of thunder came a regular tropical downpour. The rain descended in one solid mass, flooding the ground and beating flat the crops. Cargram was drenched to the skin, and by the time he slipped through the small iron gate near the big ones into the Episcopalian Park he looked like a lean water rat. Being in a bad temper from his shower-bath he was almost as venomous as that animal, and raced up the avenue in his sodden clothing, shivering and dripping. Suddenly he heard the quick trot of a horse, and guessing that the bishop was returning he stood aside in the shadow of the trees to let his superior pass by. Like the chaplain Dr. Pendo was streaming with water and his horse's hoofs plashed up the sodden ground as though he were crossing a marsh. By the vivid glare of the lightnings which shot streaks of blue fire through the descending deluge, Cargram caught a glimpse of the bishop's face. It was deathly pale and bore a look of mingled horror and terror. Another moment, and he had passed into the blackness of the drenching rain, leaving Cargram marveling at the torture of the mind which could produce so terrible an expression. It is the face of Cain, whispered Cargram to himself, what can his secret be? End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume. It is almost impossible to learn the genesis of a rumor. It may be started by a look, a word, a gesture, and it spreads with such marvellous rapidity that by the time public curiosity is fully aroused no one can trace the original source, so many and winding are the channels through which it has flowed. Yet there are exceptions to this general rule, especially in criminal cases, where for the safety of the public it is absolutely necessary to get to the bottom of the matter. Therefore the rumor which pervaded Berminster on Monday morning was soon traced by the police to a carter from Southbury. This man mentioned to a friend that when crossing the heath during the early morning he had come across the body of a man. The rumor, weak in its genesis, stated first that a man had been hurt, later on that he had been wounded. By noon it was announced that he was dead, and finally the actual truth came out that the man had been murdered. The police authorities saw the carter and were conducted by him to the corpse, which after examination they brought to the dead house in Berminster. Then all doubt came to an end, and it was officially declared during the afternoon that Gentham, the military vagabond, lately resident at the Derby winner, had been shot through the heart. But even rumor, prolific as it is in invention, could not suggest who had murdered the man. So unusual an event in the quiet cathedral city caused the greatest excitement, and the streets were filled with people talking over the matter. Amateur detectives, swilling beer in public houses, gave their opinions about the crime, and the more beer they drank, the wilder and more impossible became their theories. Some suggested that the gypsies camped on Southbury Heath, who were continually fighting amongst themselves, had killed the miserable creature. Others, asserting that the scamp was desperately poor, hinted at suicide induced by sheer despair. But the most generally accepted opinion was that Gentham had been killed in some drunken frolic by one or more Irish harvesters. The Berminster reporters visited the police station and endeavored to learn what Inspector Tinkler thought. He had seen the body, he had viewed the spot where it had been found, he had examined the Carter, Giles Craig, so he was the man most likely to give satisfactory answers to the questions as to who had killed the man, and why he had been shot. But Inspector Tinkler was the most wary of officials, and pending the inquest and the verdict of twelve good men and true, he declined to commit himself to an opinion. The result of this reticence was that the reporters had to fall back on their inventive faculties, and next morning published three theories side by side concerning the murder, so that the Berminster Chronicle containing these suppositions proved to be as interesting as a police novel and quite as unreliable. But it amused its readers and sold largely, therefore proprietor and editor were quite satisfied that fiction was as good as fact to tickle the long ears of a credulous public. As the dead man had lodged at the Derby winner, and many people had known him there, quite a sensation was caused by the report of his untimely end. From morning till night the public house was thronged with customers, thirsting both for news and beer. Nevertheless, although business was so brisk, Mosque was by no means in a good temper. He had returned early that morning from Southbury, and had been one of the first to hear about the matter. When he heard who had been killed, he regarded the committal of the crime quite in a personal light, for the dead man owed him money, and his death had discharged the debt in a way of which Mr. Mosque did not approve. He frequently referred to his loss during the day, when congratulated by unthinking customers on the excellent trade the assassination had brought about. For, as Islay says, remarked one wise acre, et an elwanna, don't blow good to somebody. Yeah, growled Mosque in his beery voice, it's about as broad as its long, so far as I'm concerned. I've lost a couple of quid through genthems going and getting shot, and it will take a good many tankards of bitterer at thruppence to make that up. Oh dear, they shot at Mr. Mosque. Ask me something easier, can't you? I don't know nothing about the cove. I don't. He comes here two, three weeks ago, and leaves oh and me money. Where he comes from, or who he is, or what he's been doing to get shot, I know no more nor you do. All I does know, finished Mosque, emphatically, is as I've lost two bloomin' quid, and that's a lot to a poor man like me. Well, Father, it's no good making a fuss over it, cried Debell, who overheard his grumbling. If genthem hadn't been shot, we wouldn't be doing so well. For my part, I'm sorry for the poor soul. For Blackard, you mean? No, I don't. I don't call any corpse a Blackard. If he was one, I daresay he's been punished enough now, without our calling him names. He wasn't the kind of man I fancy'd, but there's no denying he was attractive in his own wicked way. Ha! said a dirty-looking man, who was more than suspected of being a welcher. Couldn't he slap up yarns about hingions and heathens as bows down to stalks and stones? Oh, no, not he. He could lie like one a year old if that's what you mean, said Mosque. Bloomin' fine lion anyhow, retorted the critic. I'd get Orp the Turf, if I could spit him out that style. Make me fortune, I would, on the pipers. If I'd chucked Orp the Turf off in another that is, replied the landlord, sourly, were at to give the conversation a less personal application, the dirty welcher remarked that he would drain another bitter. I suppose he'll be as drunk as a pig by night, said the bell, taking the order.  Go on, he got drunk, didn't he? Oh, no, you bet he didn't. He got drunk like a gentleman at all events, none of your sauce black, or I'll have you chucked. You know me by this time, I hope. In fact, as several of the customer's remark, Miss Bell was in a fine temper that morning and her tongue raged round like a prairie fire. This bad humor was ascribed by the public to the extra work entailed on her by the sensation caused by the murder, but the true cause lay with Gabriel. He had promised faithfully on the previous night to come round and see Mrs Mosque, but to Bell's anger had failed to put in an appearance, the first time he had done such a thing. As Miss Mosque's object was always to have an ostensible reason for seeing Gabriel in order to protect her character, she was not at all pleased that he had not turned her excuse for calling on him into an actual fact. It is true that Gabriel presented himself late in the afternoon and requested to see the invalid, but instead of taking him up to the sick-room, Bell whirled the curate into a small back-parlor and closed the door in order, as she remarked, to have it out with him. Now then, said she, planting her back against the door, what do you mean by treating me like a bit of dirt? You mean that I did not come round last night, Bell? Yes, I do. I told Mother you would visit her. I said to Jacob Jarper, as I'd come to ask you to see Mother, and you would go and make me out a liar by not turning up. What do you mean? I was ill and couldn't keep my promise, said Gabriel shortly. Ill, said to Bell, looking him up and down. Well, you do look ill.  What have you been doing with yourself, I'd like to know. You were all right when I left you last night. The weather affected my nerves, exclaimed Gabriel with a weary sigh, passing his thin hand across his anxious face. I felt that it was impossible for me to sit in a close room and talk to a sick woman, so I went round to the stables where I keep my horse, and took him out in order to get a breath of fresh air. What? You rode out at that late hour? In all that storm? The storm came on later. I went out almost immediately after you left, and got back at half-past ten. It wasn't so very late. Well, of all mad things, said to Bell grimly, it's easily seen, Mr. Gabriel Pendle, how badly you want a wife at your elbow. Where did you go? I rode out to Southbury Heath, replied Gabriel, with some hesitation. What a mercy! Where Jentham's corpse was found? The curate shuddered. I didn't see any corpse, he said painfully and slowly. Instead of keeping to the high road, I struck out cross-country. It was only this morning that I heard of the unfortunate man's untimely end. You didn't meet any one likely to have laid him out? No, I met no one. I felt too ill to notice passers-by, but the ride did me good, and I feel much better this morning. You don't look better, said Bell, with another searching glance.  Bell! protested Gabriel, almost in an hysterical tone, for his nerves were not yet under control, and the crude speeches of the girl made him wince. Well, well, I'm only joking. I know you wouldn't hurt a fly, but you do look ill, that's a fact. Let me get you some brandy. Oh, no, thank you. Brandy would only make me worse. Let me go up and see your mother. I shan't. You're not fit to see any one. Go home and lie down till your nerves get right. You can see me after five, if you like, for I'm going to the dead-house to have a look at Jentham's body. What? To see the corpse of that unhappy man? Right, Gabriel, shrinking away. Why not? answered Bell coolly, for she had that peculiar love of looking on dead bodies characteristic of the lower classes. I want to see how they killed him. How who killed him? The person has did it silly, though I don't know who could have shot him unless it was that old cat of a Mrs. Pensey. Well, I can't stay here talking all day, and the father will be wondering what I'm up to.  Not just now. I must walk up to the palace. The bishop will be in a fine way about this murder. It's years since anyone got killed here. I hope they'll catch the wretch as shot Jentham, though I can't say I liked him myself. I hope they will catch him, replied Gabriel mechanically. Good day, Miss Mosque. I shall call and see your mother tomorrow. Good day, Mr. Pendle, and thank you oh so much. This particular form of farewell was intended for the ears of Mr. Mosque and the general public, but it failed in its object so far as the special person it was intended to impress was concerned. When the black clothed form of Gabriel vanished, Mr. Mosque handed over the business of the bar to an active pot boy and conducted his daughter back to the little parlor. Bell saw from his lowering brow that her father was suspicious of her lengthened interview with the curate and was bent upon causing trouble. However, she was not the kind of girl to be daunted by black looks, and moreover was conscious that her father would be rather pleased than otherwise to hear that she was honorably engaged to the son of Bishop Pendle. So she sat down calmly enough at his gruff command and awaited the coming storm. If driven into a corner, she intended to tell the truth, therefore she faced her father with the greatest coolness. What do you mean by it? cried Mosque, bursting into angry words as soon as the door was closed.  Now look here, father, said to Bell quickly, you keep a civil tongue in your head, or I won't use mine. I'm not a hussy, and you have no right to call me one. Now, right, ain't I your lawfully begotten father? Yes, you are, worse luck. I'd have had a duke for my father if I'd been asked what I wanted. Wouldn't a bishop content you, sneered Mosque, with a scowl on his pimply face? You're talking of Mr. Pendle, are you? said to Bell willfully, misunderstanding the insinuation. Yes, I am, you jade, and I won't have it. I tell you I won't. Won't have what, father? Give it a name. Why, this carrying on with that parson chap, not as I have a word to say against Mr. Pendle, because he's worth a dozen of a cargram lot, but he's gentry, and you're not. What's that got to do with it, demanded Bell, with supreme contempt? This much raved Mosque, clenching his fist, that I won't have you running after him, do you hear? I hear there is no need for you to rage the house down, father. I'm not running after Mr. Pendle. He's running after me. That's just as bad. You'll lose your character. Bell fired up and bounced to her feet. Who dares to say a word against my character? She asked, panting and read. Old Jarper, for one, he said you went to see Mr. Pendle last night. So I did. Oh, you did, did you? And here you've been talking, alone with him this morning, for the last hour? What do you mean by disgracing me? Disgracing you, scoffed Bell? Your character needs a lot of disgracing, doesn't it? Now, be sensible, father. She added, advancing towards him, and I'll tell you the truth. I didn't intend to, but as you are so unreasonable, I may as well set your mind at rest. What are you driving at, growled mosque, struck by her placid manner? Well, to put the thing into a nutshell, Mr. Pendle is going to marry me. Marry you! Get along! I don't see why you should doubt my word, cried Bell, with an angry flush. I'm engaged to him as honorably as any young lady could be. He has written me lots of letters, promising to make me his wife. He has given me a ring, and we're only waiting till he's appointed to be rector of Heathcroft to marry. Well, I'm damned, observed Mr. Mosque slowly. Is this true? I'll show you the ring and letters, if you like, said Bell tartly, but I don't see why you should be so surprised. I'm good enough for him, I hope.  I'm going to be gentry, too, and I'll hold my own with the best of them. As Bishop Pendle's daughter-in-law, I'll scratch the eyes out of any of them as doesn't give me my place. Mosque drew a long breath. Bishop Pendle's daughter-in-law, he repeated, looking at his daughter with admiration.  I'm clever enough to get what I want, Father, so long as you don't put your foot into it. Hold your tongue until I tell you when to speak. If the Bishop knew of this now, he'd cut Gabriel off with a shilling. Oh, he would, would he, said Mosque, in so strange a tone, that Bell looked at him with some wonder. Of course he would, said she quietly, but when Gabriel is rector of Heathcroft, it won't matter. We'll then have money enough to do without his consent. Give me a kiss, my girl, cried Mosque, clasping her to his breast.  Oh, cursit! Bell, think of old Mother Pansy. Father and daughter looked at one another and burst out laughing. CHAPTER XV THE GYPSEY RING Almost at the very time Mosque was congratulating his daughter on the conquest of the curate, Captain Pendle was paying a visit to the Jenny Wren Nest. He had only succeeded in obtaining a Saturday to Monday leave from his colonel, who did not approve of young officers being too long or too often absent from their duties, and was rejoining his regiment that very evening. As soon as he could get away from the palace, he had left his portmanteau at the station, and had come up to the cathedral close to see Mab. Much to his gratification, he found her alone in the quaint old drawing-room and blessed the Providence which had sent him thither at so propitious an hour. Auntie is lying down, exclaimed Mab, who looked rather worried and pale. She has been so upset over this horrid murder. Eat, Gad, it has upset everyone, said George, throwing himself into a chair.  I could hardly get him to say good-bye. Though upon my word, added George, waxing warm, I don't see that the death of a wretched tramp is of such moment. Yet it seems to have annoyed everyone. Including yourself, said Mab, remarking how worried her lover looked and how far from being his pleasant natural self. Yes, my dearest, including myself. When the bishop is annoyed, my mother fiddles over him until she makes herself ill. Knowing this, he is usually careful not to let her see him when he is out of sorts. But today, he was not so discreet and the consequence is that my mother has an attack of nerves and is lying on her sofa, bathed in tears with Lucy in attendance. Of course, all this has upset me in my turn. Well, George, I suppose it is natural that the bishop should be put out for such a terrible crime has not been committed here for years. Indeed, the Chronicle of last week was remarking how free from crime this place was. And naturally the gods gave him the lie by arranging a first-class murder straight away, said George with a shrug. But why everybody should be in such a state I can't see? The palace is like an undertaker's establishment when business is dull. The only person who seems at all cheerful is that fellow car groom. He ought to be annoyed for the bishop's sake. Faith, then, he isn't, Mab. He's going about rubbing his hands and grinning like a Cheshire cat. I think the sight of him irritated me more than the mourners. I'm glad to go back to my work. Are you glad to leave me? No, you dear goose, said he, taking her hand affectionately. That is the bitter drop in my cup. However, I have brought you something to draw us closer together. There. Oh, George! cried Mab, looking in ecstasy at the ring he had slipped on her finger. What a lovely, lovely ring!  Three turquoise stones set in a braid of silver. I never saw so unique a pattern. I dare say not. It's not the kind of ring you'll come across every day, and precious hard work I had to get it. Did you buy it in Burmenster, asked Miss Arden, putting her head on one side to admire the peculiar setting of the blue stones? No, I bought it from other jail. From other jail? That old gypsy fortune teller? Precisely, from that very identical old witch of indoor. I saw it on her lean paw when I was last in Burmenster, and she came hovering round to tell my fortune. The queer look of it took my fancy, and I determined to secure it for our engagement ring. However, the old lady wasn't to be bribed into parting with it, but last night I rode out to the camp on Southbury Common and succeeded in getting it off her. She is a regular Jew at a bargain and haggled for an hour before she would let me have it. Ultimately I gave her the price she asked, and there it is on your pretty hand. How sweet of you, George, to take so much trouble! I shall value the ring greatly for your sake. And for your own too, I hope, it is a lucky ring, and came from the East, Mother Jail said, in the old, old days. It looks rather Egyptian, so perhaps Cleopatra wore it when she went to meet Anthony. Oh, such nonsense! But it is a dear lovely ring, and I'll wear it always. I think I deserve a kiss from you for my trouble, said George, drawing her lovely glowing face towards him. There, darling, the next ring I place on your finger will be a plain golden one, not from the East, but from an honest Burmenster jeweler. But George, Mav laid her head on his breast, I am not sure if I ought to accept it, really. Your father does not know of our engagement. I intend to tell him when I next visit Burmenster, my love. Indeed, but that he takes this wretched murder so much to heart I would have told him to-day. Still, you need not scruple to wear it, dearest, for your aunt and my mother are both agreed that you will make me the sweetest of wives. Auntie is always urging me to ask you to tell your father. Then you can inform her that I'll do so next. Why, here is your aunt, my dear. Auntie, cried Mav, as Miss Winchelow, like a little white ghost, moved into the room. I thought your head was so bad. It is better now, my dear, replied the old lady, who really looked very ill. How do you do, Captain Pendle?  No, I hadn't, my dear man, at least not until your engagement with Mav is an accomplished fact. But it is an accomplished fact now, auntie, said Mav, showing the ring, here is the visible sign of our engagement. A strange ring, but very charming, pronounced Miss Wichelow, examining the jewel, but does the bishop know? I intend to tell him when I come back next week, said George promptly. At present he is too upset with this murder to pay much attention to my love affairs. Upset with this murder, cried the little lady, dropping into a chair. I don't wonder at it, I am quite ill with the news. I'm sure I don't see why, auntie, this gentham tramp wasn't a relative, you know. Miss Wichelow shuddered and, if possible, turned paler. He was a human being, Mav, she said, in a low voice, and it is terrible to think that the poor wretch, however evil he may have been, should have come to so miserable an end. Is it known who shot him, Captain Pendle? No, there are all sorts of rumours, of course, but none of them very reliable. It's a pity, too, added George reflectively, for if I had only been a little earlier in leaving Mother Jail, I might have heard the shot and captured the murderer. What do you mean, Captain Pendle, cried Miss Wichelow with a start? Why, didn't I tell you? Oh, of course I didn't, it was Mav, I told. What did you tell her, questioned the old lady with some impatient? That I was on Southbury Heath last night. What were you doing there? Seeing after the gypsy ring for Mav, explained George, pulling his moustache, I bought at a Mother Jail and had to ride out to the camp to make the bargain. As I'm going back into harness today, there isn't much time to lose, so I went off last night after dinner between eight and nine o'clock, and the old Jade kept me so long fixing up the business that I didn't reach home until eleven. Why, Joe, I got a jolly ducking. Looked like an insane river-god dripping with wet. Did you see anything of the murder, Captain Pendle? No, I didn't even hear the shot, though that wasn't to be wondered at, considering the row made by rain and thunder. Where was the body found? Somewhere in a ditch near the High Road, I believe. At all events it wasn't in the way, or my G would have tumbled across it. Ms. Wichillow reflected. The bishop was over at Southbury yesterday. Was he not, she asked? Yes, at a confirmation service. He rode back across the common and reached the palace just before I did, about half an hour or so. Did he hear or see anything? Not to my knowledge, but the truth is, I haven't had an opportunity of asking questions. He is so annoyed at the disgrace to the diocese by the committal of this crime that he's quite beside himself. I was just telling Mab about it when you came in. Six o'clock, cried Captain George, starting up as the chimes rang out. I must be off. If I'm late at barracks, my Colonel will parade me to-morrow, and go down my throat, spurs, boots, and all. Wait a moment, Captain Pendle, and I'll come with you. But your headache, auntie, remonstrated Mab. My dear, a walk in the fresh air will do me good. I shall go with Captain Pendle to the station. Make your ideas, young people, while I put on my bonnet and cloak. When Miss Wichillow left the room, Mab, who had been admiring her ring during the foregoing conversation, was so impressed with its quaint beauty that she again thanked George for having given it to her. This piece of politeness led to an exhibition of tenderness on the part of the departing lover, and during the dragon's absence this foolish young couple talked the charming nonsense which people in their condition particularly affect. Realism is a very good thing in its own way, but to set down an actual love conversation would be carrying it to excess. Only the exaggerated exaltation of mind attendant on lovemaking can enable lovers to endure the transcendentalism with which they bore one another. And then the look which makes an arrow of the most trifling phrase, the caress which gives the nearest glance a most eloquent meaning, how can prosaic pen and ink and paper report these fittingly? The sympathetic reader must guess what George and Mab said to one another. He must fancy how they said it, and he or she must see in his or her mind's eye how young and beautiful and glowing they looked when Miss Wichillow, as the prose of their poetry, walked into the room. The dear old lady smiled approvingly when she saw their bright faces, for she too had lived in arcity, although the envious gods had turned her out of it long since. Now, Captain Pendle, when you have done talking nonsense with that child, I'm ready. Do call me George, Miss Wichillow, entreated the captain? No, sir, not until your father gives this engagement his Episcopalian blessing. No nonsense. Come along. But Miss Wichillow's bark was worse than her bite, for she discreetly left the room so that the lovebirds could take a tender leave of each other, and Captain Pendle found her standing on the steps outside with a broad smile on her face.  She asked smilingly. No, replied George innocently, I have them with me. Oh, exclaimed Miss Wichillow, marching down the steps like a toy soldier, in my youth young men in your condition always forgot their gloves. By Jove, I have left something behind me, though. Your heart, probably. Never mind, it is in safekeeping. None of your tricks, sir. Come, come.  The little old lady was one of those loved by the gods, for she would undoubtedly die young in heart. Still, as she walked with Captain Pendle to the station in the gathering darkness, she looked worried and white. George could not see her face in the dust, and, moreover, was too much taken up with his late charming interview to notice his companion's preoccupation. In spite of her sympathy, Miss Wichillow grew weary of a monologue on the part of George in which the name of Mab occurred fifty times and more. She was glad when the train steamed off with this too happy lover and promised to deliver all kinds of unnecessary messages to the girl George had left behind him. But let them be happy while they can, murmured Miss Wichillow, as she tripped back through the town, or souls if they only knew what I know. As Miss Wichillow had the meaning of this enigmatic speech in her mind, she did not think it was necessary to put it into words, but silent and pensive walked along the crowded pavement. Shortly she turned down a side street which led to the police station, and there paused in a quiet corner to pin a veil round her head, a veil so thick that her features could hardly be distinguished through it. The poor lady adopted this as a kind of disguise, forgetting that her old-fashioned poke bonnet and quaint silk cloak were as well known to the inhabitants of Burminster as the cathedral itself. That early century garb was as familiar to the rascality of the slums as to the richer citizens. Even the police knew it well, for they had often seen its charitable wearer by the bed sides of dying poppers. It thus happened that when Miss Wichillow presented herself at the police station to Inspector Tinkler, he knew her at once, in spite of her foolish little veil. Moreover, in greeting her, he pronounced her name. Oh hush, hush, Mr. Inspector! whispered Miss Wichillow with a mysterious glance around. I do not wish it to be known that I called here. You can depend upon my discretion, Miss Wichillow, ma'am, said the Inspector, who was a bluff and tyrannical ex-surgeon. And what can I do for you? Miss Wichillow looked round again. I wish, Mr. Inspector, said she, in a very small voice, to be taken by you to the dead house. To the dead house, Miss Wichillow, ma'am, said the iron Tinkler, hardly able to conceal his astonishment, although it was against his disciplinarian ideas to show emotion. There is a dead man in there, Mr. Inspector, whom I knew, under very different circumstances, more than twenty years ago. Answers to the name of Jentham, perhaps, suggested Mr. Inspector. Yes, he called himself Jentham, I believe. I, I, I wish to see his body. And the little old lady looked anxiously into Tinkler's purple face. Miss Wichillow, ma'am, said the ex-surgeon with an official air, this request requires reflection. Do you know the party in question? I knew him, as I told you, more than twenty years ago. He was then a very talented violinist, and I heard him play frequently in London. What was his name, Miss Wichillow, ma'am? His name then, Mr. Inspector, was Amaru. A stage name, I take it to be, ma'am. Yes, a stage name. What was his real name? I can't say, replied Miss Wichillow, in a hesitating voice. I knew him only as Amaru. Here he called himself Jentham. Do you know anything about this murder, Miss Wichillow, ma'am? And the Inspector fixed a bloodshot gray eye on the thick veil. No, no. I know nothing about the murder, cried Miss Wichillow in earnest tones. I heard that this man Jentham looked like a gypsy, and was marked with a scar on the right cheek. From that description I thought he might be Amaru, and I wish to see his body to be certain that I am right. Well, Miss Wichillow, ma'am, said the stern tinkler, after some deliberation, your request is out of the usual course of things, but knowing you as a good and charitable lady and thinking you may throw some light on this mysterious crime, why, I'll show you the corpse with pleasure. For one moment, said the old lady, laying a detaining hand on the inspector's blue cloth sleeve, I must tell you that I can throw no light on the subject. If I could, I would. I simply desire to see the body of this man, and to satisfy myself that he is Amaru. Oh, very good, Miss Wichillow, ma'am, you shall see it. And you will not mention that I came here, Mr. Inspector.  This way, Miss Wichillow, this way. Following the rigid figure of the inspector, the little old lady was conducted by him to a small building of galvanized tin in the rear of the police station. Several idlers were hanging about, amongst them being Miss Bell Mosque, who was trying to persuade a handsome young policeman to gratify her morbid curiosity. Her eyes opened to their widest width when she recognized Miss Wichillow's silk, cloak, and poke bonnet, and saw them vanish into the dead house. Well, I never, said Miss Mosque. I never thought she'd be fond of corpses at her time of life, seeing as she'll soon be one herself. The old lady and the inspector remained within for five or six minutes. When they came out, the tears were falling fast beneath Miss Wichillow's veil. Is that the man, asked Tinkler in a low voice? Yes, replied Miss Wichillow. That is the man I knew as Amaru. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume This strange affair of Jentham's murder continued to occupy the attention of the Burminster public throughout the week, and on the day when the inquest was held, popular excitement rose to fever heat. Inspector Tinkler, feeling that the county expected him to do great things worthy of his reputation as a zealous officer, worked his hardest to gather evidence likely to elucidate the mystery of the death. But in spite of the most strenuous exertions, his efforts resulted in total failure. The collected details proved to be of the most meager description. And when the coroner sat on the body, a nothing transpired, to reveal the name, or even indicate the identity of the assassin who had provided him with the body to sit on. It really seemed as though the Southbury murder would end in being relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes. For I can't work miracles, explained the indignant Tinkler, when reproached with this result, and somehow the case has got out of hand. The motive for the shooting can't be got at, the pistol use ain't to be picked up, search how you may, and as for the murdering villain who fired it, if he ain't down below where he ought to be, I'll take my oath as a soldier he ain't above ground. Take it how you will, this case is a corker and no mistake. It had certainly occurred to Tinkler's bothered mind that Miss Wichlow should be called as a witness if only to prove that at one time the dead man had occupied a better position in the world, but after a short interview with her he had abandoned this idea. Miss Wichlow declared that she could throw no light on the affair and that she had lost sight of a quantum violinist for over thirty years. Her recognition of him as a maru had been entirely due to the description of his gypsy looks and the noticeable cicatrists on his face, and she pointed out to Tinkler that she had not seen the so-called genthum till after his death. Moreover, it was unlikely that events which had occurred thirty years before could have resulted in the man's violent death at the present time, and Miss Wichlow insisted that she knew nothing of the creature's later circumstances or acquaintances. Being thus ignorant, it was not to be expected that her evidence would be of any value, so at her earnest request Tinkler held his tongue and forebore to summon her as a witness. Miss Wichlow was greatly relieved in her own mind when the inspector came to this conclusion, but she did not let Tinkler see her relief. From Mosque the officer had learned that the vagabond who called himself Genthum had appeared at the Darby winner some three weeks previous to the time of his death. He had given no information as to where he had last rested, but so far as Mosque knew had dropped down from the sky. Certainly his conversation when he was intoxicated showed that he had traveled a great deal and that his past was concerned with robbery and bloodshed and lawlessness. But the man had talked generally as any traveler might, had refrained from mentioning names, and altogether had spoken so loosely that nothing likely to lead to a tangible result could be gathered from his rambling discourses. He had paid his board and lodging for the first week, but thereafter had lived on credit and at the time of his death had owed Mosque over two pounds, principally for strong drink. Usually he slept at the Darby winner and loathed about the streets all day, but at times he went over to the Gypsy camp near Southbury and fraternized with a Romani. This was the gist of Mosque's information, but he added, as an afterthought, that Genthum had promised to pay him when certain monies which he expected came into his possession. Who was going to pay him this money? asked Tinkler, pricking up his ears. Can't you ask me something easier? growled Mosque. How should I know? He thought he was going to get the divs, but who from or where from? I don't know, for I held his tongue so far. There was no money in the pockets of the clothes worn by the body, said Tinkler musingly. I dare say not, Mr. Inspector. I don't believe the cub was expecting any money. I don't. It was all moonshine, his talk, to make me trust him for the bed and grub and a blamed fool, I've been doing so, grumbled Mosque. The pockets were turned inside out, though. Oh, there was, was they, Mr. Inspector? Well, that does look queer, but if there was any light-fingered business to be done, I'd dare say then Gypsies have something to do with it. Did the man go to the Gypsy camp on Sunday night? Bell says he did, replied Mr. Mosque, but I went over to Southbury in the afternoon about a little loss as I'm sweet on, so I don't know what he did, say by hearsay. Bell, on being questioned by the Inspector, declared that Jentham had loitered about the hotel the greater part of Sunday, but had taken his departure about five o'clock. He did not say that he was going to the camp, but as he often paid a visit to it, she presumed that he had gone there during that evening. Especially as you found his corpse on the common, Mr. Tinkler, said Bell, no doubt the poor wretch was coming back from them Gypsies. It's not a bad idea, said Tinkler, scratching his well-shaven chin, strikes me as I'll go and look up Mother Jail. The result of an interview with that iniquitous old bell-dame proved that Jentham had certainly been the guest of the Gypsies on Sunday evening, but had returned to Berminster shortly after nine o'clock. He had stated that he was going back to the Derby winter, and as it was his custom to come and go when he pleased, the Romani had not taken much notice of his departure. A vagrant like Jentham was quite independent of time.  Yes, dearie, yes, Lord Blessey, mummled Mother Jail, blinking her cunning eyes, he was one of the gentle Romani sure enough. Was he with you long, Granny? Three-week, lovey, just three-week, he came to Berminster and got weary like one of you Gentiles, though he made himself comfortable with us. Black guards to black guards and birds of a feather, murmured Tinkler, then asked if Jentham had told Mother Jail anything about himself. He screeched the old hag. He never told me a word. It commonly go'd, but he kept his red rag to himself, he did. Duhil, he was a cunning one, that Jentham. Was his name Jentham, Mother, or was it something else? He called herself so, dearie, but I never know'd one of that gentle Romani has had a Gentile name. We sticks to our own, mostly. Job, I should think so. Are you sure he was a Gypsy? Of course I am my noble Gorgio. He could, Patr the Kalo-Jib with the best of them. He know'd lots what the Gentile don't know, and he had the eagle beak and a peaked eye. Oh, tiny Jesus was a Romani child, or may I die for it. Do you know who killed him? asked Tinkler, abruptly. No, lovey, thorn't one of us, though you put Ollie's the worst on our Jvax. Job, dog, do never eat dog, as I know'd, dearie. He left your camp at nine o'clock. Thereabouts my lamb, just after nine, was he sober or drunk? But to extend between, lovey, he could walk straight and talk straight, and look after his blessed life. Hmm, seems as though he couldn't, said Mr. Inspector Dryley. Divell, that's a true sayin's, had Mother Jail with an odd, but I don't know what come to him, dearie. At the inquest Mother Jail was called as a witness, and told the jury much the same story, as she had related to Tinkler, with further details as to the movements of the Gypsies on that night. She declared that none of the tribe had left the camp, that Jentham had gone away alone, comparatively sober, and that she did not hear of his murder until late the next day. In spite of examination and cross-examination, Mother Jail could give no evidence as to Jentham's real name, or about his past, or why he was lingering at Bermanster. They come, and he goad, said Mother Jail, with the air of an oracle, and that was the extent of her information delivered in a croaking, shuffling, unconvincing manner.  Hurchdine's cart, he had seen the body, lying in a ditch, half full of water, on the other side of an earthen mound, which extended along the side of the main road. The spot where he discovered it was near Bermanster, and about five miles from the Gypsy camp. The man had been shot through the heart, his pockets had been emptied and turned inside out, and evidently after the murder the robber had dragged the body over the mound into the ditch. Jiles had not touched the corpse, being fearful of getting into trouble, but had come on at once to Bermanster to inform the police of his discovery. It was Dr. Graham who had examined the body when first discovered, and according to his evidence the man had been shot through the heart shortly before ten o'clock on Sunday night. The pistol had been fired so close that the clothing of the deceased over the heart was scorched and blackened with the powder of the cartridge. And from this fact, added Graham, with one of his shrewd glances, I gather that the murderer must have been known to Gentham. How was that, doctor? asked one of the jury. Because he must have held him in talk while contemplating the crime, sir, the murderer and his victim must almost have been breast to breast. And while the attention of the latter was distracted in some way, the assassin must have shot him at close quarters. This is all theory, Dr. Graham, said the coroner, who was a rival practitioner. It seems to me that the whole case rests on theory, retorted Graham, and shrugged his shoulders. Before the evidence concerning the matter closed, Inspector Tinkler explained how difficult it had been to collect even the few details which the jury had heard. He stated also that although the strictest search had been made in the vicinity of the crime, the weapon with which it had been committed could not be found. As the shooting had been done during a downfall of rain, the assassin and his victim's footmarks were visible in the soft clay of the roadway. Also, there were the marks of horses hooves, so it was probable that the murderer had been mounted. If this were so, neither gypsies nor harvesters could have killed the wretched man, as neither the one lot nor the other possessed horses, and the gypsies have horses to draw their caravans, interrupted a sharp-looking juryman. To draw their caravans, I admit, said the undaunted Tinkler, but not to ride on. Besides, I would remind you, Mr. Jobson, as Mother Jail declares, that none of her crowd left the camp on that night. Oh, she'd declare anything. Mother Jobson, who had no great opinion of Tinkler's brains, have the footmarks in the road been measured? No, they haven't, Mr. Jobson. Then they should have, Mr. Inspector. You can tell a lot from a footmark, as I've heard, is what the French call the Bertignon system of identification. That's what it is. I don't need to go to France to learn my business, said Tinkler tartly, and if I did get the measurements of him footmarks, how am I to know which is which, Genthems or his murderers, and how can I go round the whole of Bermister to see whose feet fit him? I ask of that, Mr. Jobson, sir. At this point, judging that the discussion had gone far enough, the coroner intervened and said that Mr. Inspector had done his best to unravel a very difficult case. That he had not succeeded was the fault of the case and not of Mr. Inspector, and for his part, he thought that the thanks of the Bermister citizens were due to the efforts of so zealous and intelligent an officer as Tinkler.  However, he did not give vent to his offensive opinion. The summing up of the coroner called for little remark, he was a worthy country doctor with as much brains as would cover a six pence, and the case was beyond him in every way. His remarks to the jury, equally stupid, with the exception of Jobson, were to the effect that it was evidently impossible to find out who had killed Gentham, that the man was a quarrelsome vagabond who probably had many enemies, that no doubt while crossing the common in a drunken humor he had met with someone as bad as himself, and had come to high words with him, and that the unknown man, being armed, had no doubt shot the deceased in a fit of rage. He robbed the body, I daresay gentlemen, concluded the coroner, and then threw it into the ditch to conceal the evidence of his crime. As we don't know the man, and are never likely to know him, I can only suggest that you should find a verdict in accordance with the evidence supplied to you by the zeal of Inspector Tinkler. Man has done all he can to find out this cane, but his efforts have been vain, so we must leave the punishment of the murderer to God. And as Holy Scripture says, that murder will out, I have no doubt that some day the criminal will be brought to justice. After this wise speech it was not surprising that the jury brought in a verdict, that the deceased gentham met with a violent death at the hands of some person or persons unknown, that being the kind of verdict which juries without brains, as in the present instance, generally give. Having thus settled the matter to their own bovine satisfaction, the jury went away after having been thanked for their zeal by the coroner. That gentleman was great on zeal. Hmm, hmm, hmm," said Dr. Graham to himself, there's too much zeal altogether. I wonder what Monsieur de Telerand would have thought of these cabbages and their zeal. Well, Mr. Inspector, he added aloud, so you finished off the matter nicely. We have done our best, Dr. Graham, sir, and you don't know who killed the man? No, sir, I don't, and what's more, I don't believe anybody ever will know. That's your opinion, is it? Do you read much, Mr. Inspector? A novel at times, sir, I'm fond of a good novel. Then let me recommend to your attention the works of a French author by the name Gaborio. There's a man in them called Le Coq who would have found out the truth, Mr. Inspector. Fiction, Dr. Graham, sir? Fiction. True enough, Mr. Inspector, but most fiction is founded on fact. Well, sir, said Tinkler with a superior wise smile, I should like to see our case in the hands of your Mr. Le Coq. So would I, Mr. Inspector, or in the hands of Sherlock Holmes. Bless me, Tinkler, they'd do almost as much as you have done. It is a pity that you are not a character in fiction, Tinkler. Why, sir? Why, may I ask? Because your author might have touched you up in weak parts and have gifted you with some brains. Good day, Mr. Inspector. While Graham walked away, chuckling at his banter of this red tape official, the official himself stood gasping like a fish out of water and trying to realize the insult leveled at his dignity. Jobson, a small man, sidled round to the front of him and made a comment on the situation. It all comes of you're not measuring them footmarks, said Jobson. In detective novels the clever fellows always do that. But you'd never be put into a book, not you. You'll be put into jail, cried the outraged inspector. It's more than Gentham's murderer will if you've got the catching of them, said Jobson, and walked off. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 17 A Clerical Detective All this time Mr. Michael Cargram had not been idle. On hearing of the murder, his thoughts had immediately centered themselves on the bishop. To say that the chaplain was shocked is to express his feelings much too mildly. He was horrified, thunderstruck, terrified. In fact, there was no word in the English tongue strong enough to explain his superlative state of mind. It was characteristic of the man's malignant nature that he was fully prepared to believe in. Dr. Pendle's guilt without hearing any evidence for or against this opinion. He was aware that Gentham had been cognizant of some weighty secret concerning the bishop's past, for the concealing of which he was to have been bribed, and when the report of the murder reached the chaplain's ears, he quite believed that in place of paying the sum agreed upon, Dr. Pendle had settled accounts with the blackmailer by shooting him. Cargram took this extreme view of the matter for two reasons. Firstly, because he had gathered from the bishop's movements and Gentham's talk of Tom Tiddler's ground, that a meeting on Southbury Heath had been arranged between the pair. Secondly, because no money was found on the dead body, which would have been the case had the bribe been paid. To the circumstantial evidence that the turned-out pockets pointed to robbery, Mr. Cargram, at the moment, strangely enough, paid no attention. In considering the case, Cargram's wish was very much the father to the thought, for he desired to believe in the bishop's guilt, as the knowledge of it would give him a great deal of power over his ecclesiastical superior. If he could only collect sufficient evidence to convict Dr. Pendle of murdering Gentham, and could show him the lengths in the chain of circumstances by which he arrived at such a conclusion, he had little doubt but that the bishop to induce him to hide the crime would become his abject slave. To gain such an immense power and use it for the furtherance of his own interests, Cargram was quite prepared to compound a possible felony. So the last case of the bishop would be worse than the first. Instead of being in Gentham's power, he would be in Cargram's, and in place of taking the form of money, the black male would assume that of influence. So Mr. Cargram argued the case out, and so he determined to shape his plans, yet he had a certain hesitancy in taking the first step. He had, as he firmly believed, a knowledge that Dr. Pendle was a murderer. Yet, although the possession of such a secret gave him unlimited power, he was afraid to use it, for its mere exercise in the present lack of material evidence to prove its truth was a ticklish job. Cargram felt like a man gripping a comet by its tail, and doubtful whether to hold on or let go. However, this uncertain state of things could be remedied by a strict examination into the circumstances of the case. Therefore, Cargram set his mind to searching them out. He had been present at the inquest, but none of the witnesses brought forward by the bungling tinkler had made any statement likely to implicate the bishop. Evidently no suspicion connecting Dr. Pendle with Gentham existed in the minds of police or public. Cargram could have set such a rumor afloat by a mere hint that the dead man and the bishop's strange visitor on the night of the reception had been one and the same, but he did not think it judicious to do this. He wanted the bishop's secret to be his alone, and the more spotless was Dr. Pendle's public character, the more anxious he would be to retain it by becoming Cargram's slave in order that the chaplain might be silent regarding his guilt. But to obtain such an advantage it was necessary for Cargram to acquaint himself with the way in which Dr. Pendle had committed the crime, and this, as he was obliged to work by stealth, was no easy task. After some cogitation, the wily chaplain concluded that it would be best to hear the general opinion of the Burminster Gossips in order to pick up any stray scraps of information likely to be of use to him. Afterwards he intended to call on Mr. Inspector Tinkler and hear officially the more immediate details of the case. By what he heard from the police and the social pratlers, Cargram hoped to be guided in constructing his case against Dr. Pendle. Then there was the bishop's London journey, the bishop's checkbook with its missing butt, the bishop's journey to and from Southbury on the day and night when the murder had been committed. All these facts would go far to implicate him in the matter. Also Cargram desired to find the missing pistol and the papers which had evidently been taken from the corpse.  He argued from the fact that the pockets of the dead man's clothes had been turned inside out. Cargram did not believe that the bishop had paid the blackmail. Therefore the pockets could not have been searched for the money, and more so, as no possible robber could have known that Jentham would be possessed of a sum worth committing murder for on that night. On the other hand, if Jentham had possessed papers which inculpated the bishop in any crime, it was probable that, after shooting him, the assassin had searched for and had obtained the papers to which he attached so much value. It was the bishop who had turned the pockets inside out, and as Cargram decided, for the above reason. Certainly from a common sense point of view, Cargram's theory, knowing what he did know, was feasible enough. Having thus arrived at a point where it was necessary to transmute thought into action, Mr. Cargram assumed his best clerical uniform, his tallest and whitest jam-pot collar, and drew on a pair of delicate lavender gloves, spotless and neat and eminently sanctimonious. The chaplain took his demure way towards Mrs. Pansy's residence, as he judged very rightly that she would be the most likely person to afford him possible information. The Archdeacon's widow lived on the outskirts of Burminster in a gloomy old barrack of a mansion surrounded by a large garden, which in its turn was girdled by a high red brick wall with broken glass bottles on the top, as though Mrs. Pansy dwelt in a jail and was on no account to be allowed out. Had such a thing been possible, the whole of Burminster's humanity, rich and poor, would willingly have subscribed large sums to build the wall higher and to add spikes to the glass bottles—anything to keep Mrs. Pansy in her jail and prevent her issuing forth as a social scourge. Into the jail Mr. Cargram was admitted with a certain solemnity by a sour-faced footman whose milk of human kindness had turned acid in the thunderstorms of Mrs. Pansy's spite. This engaging serveress conducted the chaplain into a large insipocal drawing-room in which the good lady and Miss Norsham were partaking of afternoon tea. Mrs. Pansy wore her customary skirts of solemn black and looked more gloomy than ever. But Daisy, the elderly self, brightened the room with a dress of white muslim adorned with many little bows of white ribbon, so that, sartorially speaking, she was very young and very virginal and quite angelical in looks. Both ladies were pleased to see their visitor and received him warmly in their several ways. That is, Mrs. Pansy groaned and Daisy giggled. Oh, how very nice of you to call, dear Mr. Cargram, said the silt! Mrs. Pansy and I are positively dying to hear all about this very dreadful inquest. Tea? Thank you, no sugar. Ah! sighed Mr. Cargram, taking his cup, it is a terrible thing to think that an inquest should be held in Berminster on the slaughtered body of a human being. A bread-and-butter, thank you. It's a judgment, declared Mrs. Pansy, and devoured a buttery little square of toast with another groan louder than the first. Oh! do tell me, who killed the poor thing, Mr. Cargram? Gushed Daisy childishly. No one knows, Miss Norsham. The jury brought in a verdict of willful murder against some person or person's unknown. You must excuse me if I speak too technically, but those are the precise words of the verdict. And very silly words they are, pronounced the hostess, ex-cathedra. But what can you expect from a parcel of trading fools? But, Mrs. Pansy, no one knows who killed this man. They should find out, Mr. Cargram. They have tried to do so and have failed. That shows that what I say is true. Police and jury are fools, said Mrs. Pansy, with the triumphant air of one clinching an argument. Oh, dear, it is so very strange, said the fair Daisy. I wonder, really, what could have been the motive for the murder. As the pockets were turned inside out, said Mr. Cargram, it is believed that robbery was the motive. Rubbish, said Mrs. Pansy, shaking her skirts. There's a deal more in this crime than meets the eye. I believe General Opinion is agreed upon that point, said the chaplain-drivy. What is Miss Wichelow's opinion? demanded the Archdeacon's widow. Cargram could not suppress a start. It was strange that Mrs. Pansy should allude to Mrs. Wichelow when he also had his suspicions regarding her knowledge of the dead man. I don't see what she has to do with it, he said quietly, with the intention of arriving at Mrs. Pansy's meaning. Ah, no more can anyone else, Mr. Cargram, but I know. I know. Know what, dear Mrs. Pansy, oh, really, you are not going to say the poor Miss Wichelow fired that horrid pistol? I don't say anything, Daisy, as I don't want to figure in a libel action, but I should like to know why Miss Wichelow went to the dead house to see the body. Did she go there? Are you sure? exclaimed the chaplain, much surprised. I can believe my own eyes, can't I? snapped Mrs. Pansy. I saw her myself, for I was down near the police station the other evening on one of my visits to the poor. There, while returning home by the dead house, I saw that hussy of a bell mosque making eyes at a policeman, and I recognized Miss Wichelow for all her veil. Did she wear a veil? I should think so, and a very thick one. But if she wants to do underhand things, she should change her bonnet and cloak. I knew them. Don't tell me. Certainly Miss Wichelow's actions seemed suspicious, and anxious to learn their meaning from the lady herself, Cargram mentally determined to visit the Jenny Wren House after leaving Mrs. Pansy, instead of calling on Miss Tankrit as he had intended. However, he was in no hurry, and asking Daisy for a second cup of tea to prolong his stay, went on drawing out his hostess. How very strange! said he in allusion to Mrs. Wichelow. I wonder why she went to view so terrible a sight as that man's body. Ah! replied to Mrs. Pansy with a shake of her turban. We all want to know that. But I'll find her out. That I will. But, dear Mrs. Pansy, you don't think sweet Miss Wichelow has anything to do with this dreadful murder. I accuse no one, Daisy. I simply think. What do you think, questioned Cargram, a rather sharp play?  Honestly speaking, the artful old lady was as puzzled by Miss Wichelow's visit to the dead house as her hearers, and she could bring no very tangible accusation against her. But Mrs. Pansy knew well the art of spreading scandal, and was quite satisfied that her significant silence—about nothing—would end in creating something against Miss Wichelow. When she saw Cargram look at Daisy, and Daisy look back to Cargram, and remembered that their tongues were only a degree less venomous than her own, she was quite satisfied that a seed had been sown likely to produce a very fertile crop of baseless talk. The prospect cheered her greatly, for Mrs. Pansy hated Miss Wichelow as much as a certain personage she quoted on occasions is said to hate holy water. You are quite an ear of Dionysius, said the chaplain, with a complimentary smirk. Everything seems to come to you. I make it my business to know what is going on, Mr. Cargram, replied the lady, much gratified, in order to stem the torrent of infidelity, debauchery, lying, and flattery, which rolls through this city. Oh, dear me, how strange it is that the dear bishop saw nothing of this frightful murder, explained Daisy, who had been reflecting. He rode back from Southbury, late on Sunday night, I hear. His lordship saw nothing, I am sure, said Cargram hastily, for it was not his design to incriminate Dr. Pendle. If he had, he would have mentioned it to me, and you know, Miss Norsham, there was quite a tempest on that night, so even if his lordship had passed near the scene of the murder, he could not have heard the shot of the assassin or the cry of the victim. The rain and thunder would, in all human probability, have drowned both. Besides which his lordship is neither sharp-eared nor observant, said Mrs. Pansy spitefully. A man less fitted to be a bishop doesn't live. Oh, dear Mrs. Pansy, you are too hard on him. Rubbish, don't tell me. What about his sons, Mr. Cargram? Did they hear anything? I don't quite follow you, Mrs. Pansy. Bless the man, I'm talking English, I hope. Both George and Gabriel Pendle were on Southbury Heath on Sunday night. Are you sure? cried the chaplain. Doubtful if he heard a right. Of course I am sure, snorted the lady. Would I speak so positively if I wasn't? No indeed. I got the news from my page-boy. Really, from that sweet little Cyril? Yes, from that worthless scamp Cyril. Cyril, repeated Mrs. Pansy with a snort, the idea of a pauper like Mrs. Jennings giving her brat such a fine name. Well, it was Cyril's night out on Sunday, and he did not come home till late, and then made his appearance very wet and dirty. He told me that he had been on Southbury Heath, and had been almost knocked into a ditch by Mr. Pendle galloping fast. I asked him which Mr. Pendle had been out riding on Sunday, and he declared that he had seen them both, George about eight o'clock when he was on the Heath, and Gabriel shortly after nine as he was coming home. I gave the wretched boy a good scolding, no supper, and a psalm to commit to memory. George and Gabriel Pendle, riding on Southbury Heath on that night, said the chaplain thoughtfully, it is very strange. Strange, almost shouted Mrs. Pansy, it's worse than strange, it's Sabbath-breaking, and their father, riding also, no wonder the mystery of iniquity doth work, when those high in the land break the fourth commandment. Are you going, Mr. Corgram? Yes, I am sorry to leave such charming company, but I have an engagement. Goodbye, Miss Norsham, your tea was worthy of the fair hands which made it. Goodbye, Mrs. Pansy, let us hope that the authorities will discover and punish this unknown Cain. Cain, or Jezebel, said Mrs. Pansy darkly, it's one or the other of them. Whether the good lady meant to indicate Miss Wichelot by the second name, Mr. Corgram did not stay to inquire, as he was in a hurry to see her himself, and find out why she had visited the dead house. He therefore bowed and smiled himself out of Mrs. Pansy's jail, and walked as rapidly as he was able to the little house in the shadow of the cathedral towers. Here he found Miss Wichelot all alone, as Mab had gone out to tea with some friends.  Gradually Corgram brought round the conversation to Mrs. Pansy, and mentioned that he had been paying her a visit. I hope you enjoyed yourself, I'm sure Mr. Corgram said Miss Wichelot good-humoredly, but it gives me no pleasure to visit Mrs. Pansy. Well, do you know Miss Wichelot? I find her rather amusing. She is a very observant lady, and converses wittily about what she observes. She talks scandal if that is what you mean. I am afraid that word is rather harsh, Miss Wichelot. It may be, sir, but it is rather appropriate to Mrs. Pansy. Well, and who was she talking about today? About several people, my dear lady, yourself amongst the number. Indeed! Miss Wichelot drew her little body up stiffly, and had she anything unpleasant to say about me? Oh, not at all! She only remarked that she saw you visiting the dead-house last week. Miss Wichelot let fall her cup with a crash, and turned pale. How does she know that, was her sharp question. Oh, she saw you repeated the chaplain, and in spite of your veil she recognized you by your cloak and bonnet. I am greatly obliged to Mrs. Pansy for the interest she takes in my business, said Miss Wichelot, in her most stately manner. I did visit the Bermister dead-house. There! End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume—this LibriVox recording is in the public domain—Chapter 18 The Chaplain on the Warpath. Miss Wichelot's frank admission that she had visited the dead-house rather disconcerted Mr. Cargram, from the circumstance of the veil he had presumed that she wished her errand there to be unknown, in which case her conduct would have appeared highly suspicious, since she was supposed to know nothing about Gentham or Gentham's murder. But her ready acknowledgment of the fact apparently showed that she had nothing to conceal. Cargram, for all his acuteness, did not guess that of two evils Miss Wichelot had chosen the least. In truth she did not wish her visit to the dead-house to be known, but as Mrs. Pansy was cognizant of it, she judged it wiser to neutralize any possible harm that that lady could do by admitting the original statement to be a true one. This honesty would take the wind out of Mrs. Pansy's sails and prevent her from distorting an admitted fact into a fiction of hinted wickedness. Furthermore, Miss Wichelot was prepared to give Cargram a sufficient reason for her visit, so that he might not invent one. Only by so open a course could she keep the secret of her thirty-year-old acquaintance with the dead man. As a rule, the little old lady hated subterfuge, but in this case her only chance of safety lay in beating Pansy, Cargram, and company with their own weapons, and who can say that she was acting wrongly. Yes, Mr. Cargram, she repeated, looking him directly in the face, Mrs. Pansy is right. I was at the dead-house, and I went to see the corpse of the man Gentham. I suppose you, and Mrs. Pansy, wonder why I did so. Oh, my dear lady, remonstrated