In his earlier works, notably in The Mystery of a Handsome Cab and The Silent House in Pimlico, Peter Hume won a reputation second to none for plot of the stirring, ingenious, misleading, and finally surprising kind, and for working out his plot in vigorous and picturesque English. In The Bishop's Secret, while there is no falling off in plot and style, there is a welcome and marvelous broadening out as to the cast of characters representing an unusually wide range of typical men and women. These are not laboriously described by the author, but are made to reveal themselves in action and speech in a way that has, for the reader, all the charm of personal intercourse with living people. Mr. Hume's treatment of the peculiar and exclusive ecclesiastical society of a small English cathedral city is quite worthy of Anthony Trollop, and his leading character, Bishop Pendle, is equal to Trollop's best bishop. The reverend Mr. Cargram, the bishop's poor and most unworthy protege, is a meaner Uriah Heap. Mrs. Pansy is the embodiment of all shrewishness and yields unlimited amusement.  Besides these types there are several which seem to have had no exact prototypes in preceding fiction. Such are Dr. Graham, the man with a scar, the Mosque family, father, mother, and daughter, Gabriel Pendle, Miss Winshello, and last but not least Mr. Baltic, a detective so unique in character and methods as to make Conan Doyle turn green with envy. All in all, this story is so rich in the essential elements of worthy fiction in characterisation, exciting adventure, suggestions of the marvellous, wit, humour, pathos, and just enough of tragedy that it is offered to the American public in all confidence that it will be generally and heartily welcomed. The Publishers Chapter 1 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 1. Enter Mrs. Pansy as chorus. Of late years an anonymous mathematician has declared that in the British Isles the female population is seven times greater than the male. Therefore in these days is fulfilled the scriptural prophecy that seven women shall lay hold of one man and entreat to be called by his name. Miss Daisy Norsham, a veteran Belgraveian Spenster, decided after some disappointing seasons that this text was particularly applicable to London. Doubtful, therefore, of securing a husband at the rate of one chance in seven, or dissatisfied at the prospect of a seventh share in a man, she resolved upon trying her matrimonial fortunes in the country. She was plain, this lady, as she was poor, nor could she rightly be said to be in the first flush of maidenhood. In all matters other than that of man-catching, she was shallow past belief. Still, she did hope, by dint of some brisk campaigning in the diocese of Borminster, to capture a whole man unto herself. Her first step was to wheedle an invitation out of Mrs. Pansy, an Archdeacon's widow, then on a philanthropic visit to town, and she arrived towards the end of July, in a pleasant cathedral city of Borminster, in time to attend a reception at the bishop's palace. Thus the autumn maneuvers of Miss Norsham opened most auspiciously. Mrs. Pansy, with whom this elderly worshipper of Hyman had elected to stay during her visit, was a gruff woman with a scowl who looked all nose and eyebrows. Few ecclesiastical matrons were so well known in the diocese of Borminster, as was Mrs. Pansy. Not many, it must be confessed, were so ardently hated, for there were few pies indeed in which this dear lady had not a finger, few keyholes through which her eye did not peer. Her memory and her tongue, severally and combined, had ruined half the reputations in the county. In short, she was a renowned social bully, and, like most bullies, she gained her ends by scaring the lives out of meeker and better-bred people than herself. These latter feared her scenes, as she rejoiced in them, and as she knew the pasts of her friends from their cradle upwards she usually contrived by a pitiless use of her famous memory to put to route any one so ill-advised as to attempt a stand against her domineering authority. In her tall, gaunt figure, invariably arrayed in the blackest of black silks, was sighted in a room, those present either scuttled out of the way, or judiciously held their peace, for everyone knew Mrs. Pansy's talent for twisting the simplest observation into some evil shape calculated to get its author into trouble. She excelled in this particular method of making mischief. Possessed of ample means and ample leisure, both of these helped her materially to build up her reputation of a philanthropic bully. She literally swooped down upon the poor, taking one and all in charge to be fed, physics, worked, and guided, according to her own ideas. In return for benefits conferred, she demanded an unconditional surrender of free will. Nobody was to have an opinion but Mrs. Pansy. Nobody knew what was good for them, unless their ideas coincided with those of their patroness, which they never did. Mrs. Pansy had never been a mother, yet in her own opinion there was nothing about children she did not know. She had not studied medicine, therefore she dubbed the doctors a pack of fools, saying she could cure where they failed. Be they Tinkers, Taylor, Soldiers, Sailors, Mrs. Pansy invariably knew more about their vocations than they themselves did or were ever likely to do. In short, this celebrated lady, for her reputation was more than local, was what the American so succinctly terms a she-boss, and in a less enlightened age she would indubitably have been ducked in the Berfleet River as a meddlesome, scolding, clattering jade. Indeed, had anyone been so brave as to ignore the flight of time, and thus suppress her, the righteousness of the act would most assuredly have remained unquestioned. Now, as Miss Norsham wanted, for her own purposes, to know the robes, she was fortunate to come within the gloom of Mrs. Pansy's silken robes. For Mrs. Pansy certainly knew everyone, if she did not know everything, and whomesoever she chaperoned had to be received by Bermanster Society, whether Bermanster Society liked it or not. All protégés of Mrs. Pansy sheltered under the ages of her terrible reputation, and woe to the daring person who did not accept them as the most charming, the cleverest, and in every way the most desirable of their sex. But in the memory of man no one had ever sustained battle against Mrs. Pansy, and so this feminine Selkirk remained monarch of all she surveyed, and ruled over a community consisting mainly of cannons, vickers, and curits with their respective wives and offsprings. There were times when her subjects made use of language not precisely ecclesiastic, and not infrequently Mrs. Pansy's name was mentally included in the combination service. Thus it chanced that Daisy, the Spenster, found herself in Mrs. Pansy's carriage on her way to the Episcopalian reception, extremely well pleased with herself, her dress, her position, and her social guardian angel. The elder lady was impressively gloomy in her usual black silk, and she was positioned after the early Victorian mode when elegance invariably gave place to utility. Her headgear dated back to the later Georgian epoch. It consisted mainly of a gauze turban, twinkling with jet ornaments. Her bosom was defended by a cures of cold-looking steel beads, finished off at the throat by a gigantic brooch containing the portrait and hair of the late Archdeacon. Her skirts were lengthy and voluminous so that they swept floor with a creepy rustle like the fruit-fru of a brocaded spectre.  Thus attired, a veritable caricature by Leitch, this survival of a prehistoric age sat rigidly upright and mangled the reputations of all and sundry. Miss Norsham, in all but age, was very modern indeed. Her neck was lean, her arms were thin. She made up for lack of quality by display of quantity. In her Décorité costume she appeared as if composed of bones and diamonds. The diamonds represented the bulk of Miss Norsham's wealth, and she used them not only for the adornment of her uncomely person, but for the deception of any possible suitor into the belief that she was well-dowered. She affected gauzy fabrics and fluttering baby ribbons so that her dress was as the fleecy flakes of snow clinging to a well-preserved ruin. For the rest she had really beautiful eyes, a somewhat elastic mouth, and a straight nose well powdered to gloss over its chronic redness. Her teeth were genuine, and she cultivated what society novelists term silvery peels of laughter. In every way she accentuated, or obliterated, nature in her efforts to render herself attractive. Ichabod was writ large on her powdered brow, and it needed no great foresight to foresee the speedy approach of assigilated spencerhood. But to do her justice this regrettable state of single blessedness was far from being her own fault. If her good fortune had but equalled her courage and energy, she should have relinquished celibacy years ago. Oh, dear, dear Mrs. Pansy, said the younger lady, strong in adjectives and interjections and reduplications of both, is the bishop very, very sweet? Ah, he's sweet enough as bishops go, growled Mrs. Pansy in her deep-toned voice. He might be better, and he might be worse. There is too much popish superstition and worship of idols about him for my taste. If the departed can smell, added the lady with an illustrative sniff, the late Archdeacon must turn in his grave when those priests of Baal and Dagon burn incense at the morning service. Still, Bishop Pendle has his good points, although he is a time-server and a sycophant. Is he one of the Lancashire Pendles, dear Mrs. Pansy? A twenty-fifth cousin or thereabouts. He says he is a nearer relation, but I know much more about it than he does. If he want an ornamental bishop with good legs for gaiters and a portly figure for an apron, Dr. Pendle's the man. But as a god-fearing priest with a groan, a simple worshipper, groan, and a lowly repentant sinner, groan, he leaves much, much to be desired. Oh, Mrs. Pansy, the dear bishop, a sinner? Why not, cried Mrs. Pansy ferociously, aren't we all miserable sinners? Dr.  You may dress him in lawn sleeves and a mitre, and make pagan genuflections before his throne, but he is only a worm for all that. What about his wife, Astacy, to avert further expansion of this text? A poor thing, my dear, with a dilated heart and not as much blood in her body as would fill a thimble. She ought to be in a hospital and would be, too, if I had my way, lawling all day long on a sofa and taking glasses of champagne between doses of iron and extract of beef, then giving receptions and wearing herself out. How he ever came to marry the white-faced doll I can't imagine! She was a Mrs. Creek when she caught him. Oh, really, a widow! Of course, of course!  And the eyebrows went up and down in the most alarming manner. The bishop, he was a London curate then, married her some eight and twenty years ago, and I daresay he has repented of it ever since. They have three children, George, with a whisk of her fan at the mention of each name, who is a good-looking idiot in a line regiment, Gabriel, a curate as white-faced as his mother, and no doubt afflicted as she is with heart trouble. He was in whitechapel, but his father put him in a curacy here. It was sheer nepotism. Then there is Lucy. She is the best of the bunts, which is not saying much. They've engaged her to young Sir Harry Brace, and now they are giving this reception to celebrate having inveigled him into the match. Engaged, sighed the fair Daisy enviously, oh, do tell me if this girl is really, really pretty. Hmm! said the eyebrows, a pale, washed-out rag of a creature. But what can you expect from such a mother? No brains, no style, no conversation. Always a simpering, weak-eyed rag-baby. Oh, my dear! What fools men are! Ah! You may well say that, dear Mrs. Pansy, assented the spinster, thinking wrathfully of this unknown girl who had succeeded where she had failed. Is it a very, very good match? Ten thousand a year and a fine estate, my dear.  An absentee landlord, too, grumbled Mrs. Pansy resentfully, always running over the world, poking his nose into what doesn't concern him, like the wandering Jew or the flying Dutchman. Ah, my dear! Husbands are not what they used to be. The late Archdeacon never left his fireside while I was there. I knew better than to let him go to Paris or Piquin or some of those sinks of iniquity. Cook and gaze indeed, snorted Mrs. Pansy, indignantly, I would abolish them by act of parliament. They turned men into so many Satan's, walking to and fro upon the earth. Oh, the immorality of these latter days, no wonder the end of all things is predicted. Miss Norsham paid little attention to the latter portion of this diatribe. As Sir Harry Brace was out of the matrimonial market, it conveyed no information likely to be of use to her in the coming campaign. She wished to be informed as to the number and the names of eligible men, and forewarned with regard to possible rivals. And who is really and truly the most beautiful girl in Berminster, she asked abruptly? Mab Arden, replied Mrs. Pansy promptly, there now, with an emphatic blow of her fan, she is pretty, if you like, though I daresay there is more art than nature about her. Who is Mab Arden, dear Mrs. Pansy? She is Miss Wichillow's niece. That's who she is. Wichillow? Oh, good gracious me! What a very, very funny name! Is Miss Wichillow a foreigner? Foreigner? Cried Mrs. Pansy, like a stentorian ram. She belongs to a good old English family, and in my opinion she disgraces them thoroughly. A meddlesome old maid who wants to foist her niece on to George Pendle.  Really, Mr. Cargrum?  Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Oh, dear no! I gave my opinion about him pretty plainly to Dr. Graham, I can tell you, and Graham's the only man with brains in this city of fools. Is Dr. Graham young? asked Miss Norsham, in the faint hope that Mrs. Pansy's list of inhabitants might include a wealthy bachelor. Young? He's sixty, if you call that young, and in his second childhood. An atheist, too. Tom Payne, Colonel Ingersoll, by Count Amberly. Those are his gods, the pagan. I'd burn him on a tar-barrel if I had my way. It's a pity we don't stick to some customs of our ancestors. Oh, dear me! Are there no young men at all? Plenty and all idiots, brainless officers whose wives would have to ride on a baggage wagon, silly young squires whose ideal of womanhood is a brazen barmaid, and simpering curates put into the church as the fools of their respective families. I don't know what men are coming to, groaned Mrs. Pansy. The late Archdeacon was clever and pious. He honored and obeyed me as the marriage service as a man should do. I was the light of the dear man's eyes. Had Mrs. Pansy stated that she had been the terror of the late Archdeacon's life, she would have been vastly nearer the truth. But such a remark never occurred to her. Although she had bullied and badgered the wretched little man until he had seized the first opportunity of finding in the grave, the peace denied him in life, she really and truly believed that she had been a model wife. The egotism of first-person singular was so firmly ingrained in the woman that she could not conceive what a scourge she was to mankind in general, what a trial she had been to her poor departed husband in particular. If the late Archdeacon Pansy had not died, he would doubtless have become a missionary to some cannibal tribe in the South Seas in the hope that his tough healthmate would be converted into long pig. But, unluckily for Burminster, he was dead, and his relict was a mourning widow who constantly referred to her victim as a perfect husband. And yet Mrs. Pansy considered that Anthony Trollop's celebrated Mrs. Prouty was an overdrawn character. As to Miss Norsham, she was in the depths of despair, for if Mrs. Pansy was to be believed, there was no eligible husband for her in Burminster. It was with a heavy heart that the spinster entered the palace, and it was with the courage born of desperation that she perked up and smiled on the gay crowd she found within. End of Chapter 1. Chapter 2 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume, the Episcopalian residence situate some distance from the city, was a medieval building enshrined in the remnant of a royal sheis, and in its perfect quiet and loneliness resembled the palace of the sleeping beauty. Its composite architecture was of many centuries and many styles, for bishop after bishop had pulled down portions and added others, had levelled a tower here and erected a wing there, until the result was a jumble of diverse designs in Congress but picturesque. Time had mellowed the various parts into one rich-colored hole of perfect beauty, and elevated on a green rise surrounded by broad stone terraces, with towers and orioles and turrets and maschicolated battlements, clothed with ivy, buried amid ancient trees, it looked like the realization of a poet's dream. Only long ages and many changing epochs, only home-loving prelates, ample monies, and architects of genius could have created so beautiful and unique a fabric. It was the admiration of transatlantic tourists with a twang, the desire of millionaires. Aladdin's industrious genie would have failed to build such a masterpiece unless their masters had arranged to inhabit it five centuries or so, after construction. Time had created it, as time would destroy it, but at present it was in perfect preservation, and figured in steel plate engravings as one of the stately homes of England. No wonder the mitre of Bermonster was a coveted prize when its gainer could dwell in so noble and matchless a mansion. As the present prelate was an up-to-date bishop abreast of his time and fond of his creature comforts, the interior of the palace was modernized completely in accordance with the luxurious demands of nineteenth-century civilization. The stately reception rooms, thrown open on this night to what the Bermonster weakly chronicle, strong in foreign tongues, tautologically called the elite and creme de la creme of the diocese, were brilliantly illuminated by electric lamps and furnished magnificently throughout in keeping with their palatial appearance. The ceilings were painted in the Italian style with decently clothed Olympian deities. The floors were a parketry polished so highly and reflecting so truthfully that the guests seemed to be walking in some magical way upon still water. Noble windows extending from floor to roof were draped with purple curtains and stood open to the quiet, moonlit world without. Between these tall mirrors flashed back gems and colors, moving figures and floods of amber radiance and enhanced by reduplicated reflections the size of the rooms. Amid all this splendor of warmth and tents and light moved the numerous guests of the bishop, almost every invitation had been accepted, for the receptions at the palace were on a large and liberal scale, particularly as regards eating and drinking. Dr. Pendle, in addition to his official salary, possessed a handsome income and spent it in the lavish style of a cardinal waltzy. He was wise enough to know how the outward invisible signs of prosperity and dignity affect the popular imagination and frequently invited the clergy and laity to feast at the table of Mother Church to show that she could dispense loaves and fishes with the best, and buy with court and society in the splendor and hospitality of her entertainments. As he approved of an imposing ritual at the cathedral, so he affected a magnificent way of living at the palace. Mrs. Pansy and many others declared that Dr. Pendle's aims in that direction were Romish. Perhaps they were, but he could scarcely have followed a better example since the Church of Peter owes much of its power to a judicious employment of riches and ritual and a dexterous gratification of the lust of the eye. The Anglican Church is more dignified now than she was in the days of the Georges, and very brightly too, since God's ministers should not be the poorest or meanest of men. Naturally, as the host was clerical and the building ecclesiastical, the clergy predominated at this entertainment. The bishop and the dean were the only prelates of their rank present, but there were archdeacons and cannons and rectors and a plentiful supply of curates all in their own opinion bishops in embryo. The shape and expression of the many faces were various, ascetic, worldly, pale, red, round, then, fat, oval. Each one revealed the character of its owner. Some lean bent forms were those of men filled with the fire of religion for its own sake. Others, stout, jolly gentlemen, and comfortable livings loved the loaves and fishes of the church as much as their precepts. The descendants of Friar Tuck and the vicar of Bray were here, as well as those who would have been Wycliffe's and Lattermer's, had the fires of Smithfield still been a light. Obsequious curates bowed down to pompous preventaries. Bluff rectors chatted on cordial terms with suave archdeacons, and in the fold of the church there were no black sheep on this great occasion. The shepherds and pastors of the Burmester flock were polite, entertaining, amusing, and not too masterful, so that the general heir was quite Arcadian. The laity also formed a strong force. There were lords magnificently condescending to commoners, MPs who talked politics, and MPs who had had enough of that sort of thing at St. Stephen's and didn't. Party squires from adjacent county seats, prim bankers, with whom the said squires were anxious to be on good terms since they were the priests of Mammon. Officers from near Garrison towns, gay and light-hearted, who had devoted themselves to the fairer portion of the company, and a sprinkling of barristers, literary men, hardy explorers, and such like minnows among tritons. Last but not least the mayor of Burmester was present and posed as a modern Whittington, half commercial wealth, half municipal dignity. If some envious anarchists had exploded a dynamite bomb in the vicinity of the palace on that night, the greatest, the most intellectual, the richest people of the county would have come to an untimely end, and then the realm of England, like the people themselves, would have gone to pieces. The Burmester Chronicle reporter, also present with a flimsy book and a restless little pencil, worked up this idea on the spot into a glowing paragraph. Very ungulantly the ladies have been left to the last, but now the last shall be first, although it is difficult to do the subject justice. The matrons of surrounding parishes, the ladies of Burmester society, the damsels of town and country, were all present in their best attire, chattering and smiling and becking and bowing after the observant and diplomatic ways of their sex. Such white shoulders, such pretty faces, such Parisian toilettes, such dresses of obviously home manufacture never were seen in one company. The married ladies whispered a scandal behind their fans, and in a Christian spirit shot out the lip of scorn at their social enemies. The young maidens sought for marriageable men and lurked in darkish corners for the better ensnaring of impressionable males. Cupid unseen, mingled in the throng and shot his arrows right and left, not always with the best result, as many post-natural experiences showed. There was talk of the gentle art of needlework, of the latest bazaar and the agreeable address delivered thereat by Mr. Cargram. The Episcene pastime of Lawn Tennis was touched upon, and ardent young persons discussed how near they could go to Giant Pope's Cave without getting into the clutches of its occupant. The young men talked golfing, parish work, horses, church, male millinery, polo, and shooting. The young ladies chatted about Paris fashions and provincial adaptations thereof, the London season, the latest engagement, and the necessity of reviving the flirtatious game of croquet. Black coats, coloured dresses, flashing jewels, many ewed flowers, the restless crowd resembled a bed of gaudy tulips tossed by the wind, and all this chattering, laughing, clattering, glittering mass of well-bred, well-groomed humanity, moved and swayed and gyrated under the white glare of the electric lamps. Herbs in ruse, Belgravia in the provinces, vanity fair amid the cornfields. No wonder this entertainment of Bishop and Mrs. Pendle was the event of the Bermonster year. Like an agreeable Jupiter amid adoring mortals, the bishop, with his chaplain in attendance, moved through the rooms, bestowing a word here, a smile there, and a hearty welcome on all. A fine-looking man was the Bishop of Bermonster, as stately in appearance as any prelate drawn by du Marier. He was over six feet and carried himself in a soldierly fashion as became a leader of the church militant. His legs were all that could be desired to fill out Episcopalian gaiters and his bland, clean-shaven face beamed with smiles and benignity. But Bishop Pendle was not the mere figurehead Mrs. Pansy's malice declared him to be. He had great administrative powers, great organizing capabilities, and controlled his diocese in a way which did equal credit to his heart and head. As he chatted with his guests and did the honors of the palace, he seemed to be the happiest of men and well worthy of his exalted post. With a splendid position, a charming wife, a fine family, an obedient flock of clergy and laity, the Bishop's lines were cast in pleasant places. There was not even the proverbial crumpled rose-leaf to render uncomfortable the bed he had made for himself. He was like an ecclesiastical Jacob, blessed above all men. Well, Bishop, said Dr. Graham, a meager skeptic, who did not believe in the endurance of human felicity, I congratulate you. On my daughter's engagement, asked the Prelate, smiling pleasantly. On everything—your position, your family, your health, your easy conscience—all is too smooth, too well with you. It can't last, your lordship. It can't last. And the doctor shook his bald head, as no doubt Solon did at Crises when he snubbed that too-fortunate monarch. I am indeed blessed in the condition of life to which God has been pleased to call me. Oh, no doubt, no doubt. But remember, Paula Cratey's Bishop, and throw your ring into the sea. My dear Dr. Graham, said the Bishop rather stiffly, I do not believe in such paganism. God has blessed me beyond my desserts, no doubt, and I thank him in all reverence for his kindly care. Hmm, hmm! muttered Graham, shaking his head, when men thank fortune for her gifts, she usually turns her back on them. I am no believer in such superstitions, doctor. Well, well, Bishop, you have tempted the gods, let us see what they will do. Gods or God, doctor, demanded the Bishop, with magnificent displeasure.  The Bishop was netdled and rather chilled by this pessimism. He felt that it was his duty as a churchman to administer a rebuke. But Dr. Graham's pagan views were well known, and a correction, however dexterously administered, would only lead to an argument. A controversy with Graham was no joke, as he was a subtle esocrates in discovering and attacking his adversary's weak points. So, not judging the present a fitting occasion to risk a fall, the Bishop smoothed away an incipient frown and blandly smiling moved on, followed by his chaplain. Graham looked grimly after this modern cardinal Woolsey. I have never soliloquized the skeptic. I have never known a man without his skeleton. I wonder if you have one, my lord.  But you are too fortunate. If you have not a skeleton now, I feel convinced you will have to build a cupboard for one shortly. You thank blind fortune under the alias of God. Well, well, we shall see the result of your thanks. Woolsey, Napoleon, Bismarck, they all fell when most prosperous. Dr. Graham had no reason to make this speech beyond his belief founded upon experience that calms were always succeeded by storms. At present the Bishop stood under a serene sky, and in no quarter could Graham describe the gathering of the tempest he prophesied. But for all that he had a premonition that evil days were at hand, and skeptic as he was, he could not shake off the uneasy feeling. His mother had been a Highland woman, and the Kelt is said to be gifted with second sight. Perhaps Graham inherited the maternal gift of forecasting the future, for he glanced ominously at the stately form of his host, and shook his head. He thought the Bishop was too confident of continuous sunshine. In the meantime Dr. Pendle, quite free from such forebodings, unfortunately came within speaking distance of Mrs. Pansy, who in her bell of St. Paul's voice was talking to a group of meek listeners. Daisy Norsham had long ago seized upon Gabriel Pendle, and was chatting with him on the edge of the circle, quite heedless of her chaperone's monologue. When Mrs. Pansy saw the Bishop, she swooped down on him before he could get out of the way, which he would have done had courtesy permitted it. Mrs. Pansy was the one person Dr. Pendle dreaded, and if the late Archdeacon had been alive he would have encouraged the missionary project with all his heart. To every man his own fear. Mrs. Pansy was the Bishops. Bishop cried the lady in her most impressive Archdeaconal manner about that public house the Derby winner it must be removed. Kargrim, who was deferentially smiling at his Lordship's elbow, cast a swift glance at Gabriel when he heard Mrs. Pansy's remark. He had a belief, founded upon spying, that Gabriel knew too much about the public house mentioned which was in his district, and this belief was strengthened when he saw the young man start at the sound of the name. Instinctively he kept his eyes on Gabriel's face which looked disturbed and anxious, too much so for social requirements. It must be removed, repeated the Bishop gently, and why, Mrs. Pansy? Why, Bishop, you ask why? Because it is a hotbed of vice and bedding and gambling. That's why. But I really cannot see I have not the power. It's near the Cathedral too, interrupted Mrs. Pansy, whose manners left much to be desired. Scandalous! When God erects a house of prayer the devil builds a chapel there. Isn't it your duty to eradicate Plague Spots, Bishop? Before Dr. Pendle could answer this rude question, a servant approached and spoke in a whisper to his master. The Bishop looked surprised. A man to see me at this hour, at this time, said he, repeating the message aloud, Who is he? What is his name? I don't know your Lordship. He refused to give his name, but he insists upon seeing your Lordship at once. I can't see him, said the Bishop sharply. Let him call tomorrow. My Lord, he says it is a matter of life and death. Dr. Pendle frowned. Most unbecoming language, he murmured. Perhaps it may be as well to humor him. Where is he? In the entrance hall, your Lordship. Take him into the library and say I will see him shortly. Most unusual, said the Bishop to himself. Then added aloud, Mrs. Pansy, I am called away for a moment. Pray excuse me. We must talk about the derby winner later on, said Mrs. Pansy determinately. Oh yes, that is, really, I'll see. Shall I accompany your Lordship, murmured Kargrim, officiously? No, Mr. Kargrim, it is not necessary. I must see this man as he speaks so strongly, but I dare say he is only some pertinacious person who thinks that a Bishop should be at the complete disposal of the public, the exacting public. With this somewhat petulant speech, Dr. Pendle walked away, not sorry to find an opportunity of slipping out of a noisy argument with Mrs. Pansy. That, ladies departing words, were that she should expect him back in ten minutes to settle the question of the derby winner, or rather to hear how she intended to settle it. Kargrim, pleased at being left behind, since it gave him a chance of watching Gabriel, urged Mrs. Pansy to further discussion of the question, and had the satisfaction of seeing that such discussion visibly disconcerted the curate. And, Dr. Pendle, in all innocence he left the reception rooms to speak with his untoward visitor in the library, but although he knew it not, he was entering upon a dark and torturous path, the end of which he was not destined to see for many a long day. Dr. Graham's premonition was likely to prove true, for in the serene sky under which the Bishop had moved for so long, a tempest was gathering fast. He should have taken the doctor's advice and have sacrificed his ring like Polacrates, but as in the case of that old pagan, the gods might have tossed back the gift and pursued their relentless aims. The Bishop had no thoughts like these, as yet he had no skeleton, but the man in the library was about to open a cupboard and let out its grisly tenet to haunt prosperous Bishop Pendle. To him, as to all men, evil had come at the appointed hour. I fear, said Cargram, with a gentle sigh, I fear you are right about that public house, Mrs. Pansy. The chaplain made this remark to renew the discussion and if possible bring Gabriel into verbal conflict with the lady. He had a great idea of managing people by getting them under his thumb, and so far quite deserved Mrs. Pansy's epithet of a Jesuit. Of late, as Cargram knew by a steady use of his pale blue eyes, the curate had been visiting the Derby winner, ostensibly on parochial business connected with the ill-help of Mrs. Mosque, the landlord's wife. But there was a handsome daughter of the invalid, who acted as barmaid, and Gabriel was a young and inflammable man. So putting this and that together, the chaplain thought he discovered the germs of a scandal. Hence his interest in Mrs. Pansy's proposed reforms. Right, echoed the Archdeac and a widow loudly, of course I am right. The Derby winner is a nest of hawks. William Mosque would have disgraced heathen Rome in its worst days, as for his daughter, well. And Mrs. Pansy threw a world of horror into the ejaculation. Mrs. Mosque is a well conducted young lady, said Gabriel, growing red and injudicious. Lady, bellowed Mrs. Pansy, shaking her fan, and since when have brazen, painted barmaids become ladies, Mr. Pendle?  No doubt, sir, I presume even Jezebel had some redeeming qualities. Rubbish, humbug, don't tell me. Can good come out of Nazareth? Good did come out of Nazareth, Mrs. Pansy? That is enough, Mr. Pendle. Do not pollute young ears with blasphemy, and you, the son of a bishop, the curate of a parish. Remember what is to be the portion of mockers, sir, what happened to the men who threw stones at David. Oh, but really, dear Mrs. Pansy, you know Mr. Pendle is not throwing stones. People who live in glass houses dare not, my dear. I doubt your interest in this young person, Mr. Pendle.  She, excuse me, Mrs. Pansy, cried Gabriel with an angry look. You speak too freely and too ignorantly. The Darby winner is a well-conducted house, for Mrs. Mosque looks after it personally, and her daughter is an excellent young woman. I do not defend the father, but I hope to bring him to a sense of his errors in time. There is a charity which thinketh no evil, Mrs. Pansy, and with great heat, Gabriel, forgetting his manners, walked off without taking leave of either the lady or Miss Norsham. Mrs. Pansy tossed her turban and snorted, but seeing very plainly that she had gone too far, held for once her virulent tongue. Cargram rubbed his hands and laughed softly. Our young friend talks warmly, Mrs. Pansy, the natural chivalry of youth, my dear lady. Nothing more. I'll make it my business to assure myself that it is nothing more, said Mrs. Pansy, in low tones. I fear very much that the misguided young man has fallen into the lures of this daughter of Heath. Do you know anything about her, Mr. Cargram? Too wise to commit himself to speech, the chaplain cast up his pale eyes and looked volumes. This was quite enough for Mrs. Pansy. She sent it evil like a social vulture, and taking Cargram's arm, dragged him away, to find out all the bad she could about the derby winner and its too attractive barmaid. Left to herself, Miss Norsham seized upon Dean Alder, to whom she had been lately introduced, and played with the artillery of her eyes on that unattractive churchman. Mr. Dean was old and whizzen, but he was unmarried and rich, so Miss Norsham thought it might be worth her while to play Vivian to this clerical Merlin. His weak point, speedily discovered, was archaeology, and she was soon listening to a dry description of his researches into Bermanster municipal chronicles. But it was desperately hard work to fix her attention. Bermanster, explained the pedantic Dean, not unmoved by his listener's artificial charms, is derived from two Anglo-Saxon words, Bre, a hill, and Minster, the church of a monastery. Anciently our city was called Bremenster, the church of the hill, for as you can see, my dear young lady, our cathedral is built on the top of a considerable rise and hence gained its name. The townsfolk were formerly vassals and even serfs of the monastery, which was destroyed by Henry VIII. But the Reformation brought about by that king put an end to the abbot's power. The head of the Bermanster monastery was a mitered abbot.  All bishops are mitered, said Dr. Alder-Testily. A croissure and a miter are the symbols of their high office. But the Romish abbots of Bermanster were not bishops, although they were mitered prelates. Oh, how very, very amusing! cried Daisy, suppressing a yawn. And the name of the river, dear Mr. Dean, does Berfleet mean the church of the hill, too? Certainly not, Miss Norsham. Fleet, formerly fleet, is a Scandinavian word and signifies a flood, a stream, a channel. Berfleet, or as we now erroneously call it, Berfleet, means in the vulgar tongue, the flood or stream of the hill. Even in Normandy, the word flit has been corrupted for the town all called Harfleur was formerly correctly designated as Haverflit. But I am afraid you find this information dull, Miss Norsham. This last remark was occasioned by Daisy yawning. It is true that she held a fan and had politely hidden her mouth when yawning. Unfortunately the fan was of transparent material, and Daisy quite forgot that Mr. Dean could see the yawn, which he certainly did. In some confusion she extricated herself from an awkward situation by protesting that she was not tired but hungry and suggested that Dr. Alder should continue his instructive conversation at supper. Molified by this dexterous evasion, which he saw no reason to disbelieve, the Dean politely escorted his companion to the regions of Champagne and Chicken, both of which aided the lady to sustain further doses of dry-as-dust facts dug out of a monastic past by the persevering Dr. Alder. It was in this artful fashion that the town-mouse strove to ensnare the church-mouse and succeeded so well that when Mr. Dean went home to his lonely house he concluded that it was just as well the monastic institution of celibacy had been abolished. On leaving Mrs. Pansy in disgust, Gabriel proceeded with considerable heat into the next room where his mother held her court as hostess. Mrs. Pinto was a pale, slight, small framed woman with golden hair, languid eyes, and a languid manner. Owing to her delicate health she could not stand for any length of time and therefore occupied a large uncomfortable arm chair. Her daughter Lucy, who resembled her closely in looks but who had more color in her face, stood near at hand talking to her lover. Both ladies were dressed in white silk with few ornaments and looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. Certainly Mrs. Pindle appeared surprisingly young to be the parent of a grown-up family, but her continuance of youth was not due to art as Mrs. Pansy averred, but to the quiet and undisturbed life which her frail health compelled her to lead. The bishop was tenderly attached to her and even at this late stage of their married life behaved towards her more like a lover than a husband. He warded off all worries and troubles from her. He surrounded her with pleasant people and made her life luxurious and peaceful by every means obtainable in the way of money and influence. It was no wonder that Mrs. Pindle, treading the primrose path with a devoted and congenial companion, appeared still young. She looked as fair and fragile as a peri and as free from mortal cares. "'Is that you, Gabriel?' she said in a low, soft voice, smiling gently on her younger and favorite son. "'You look disturbed, my dear boy.' "'Mrs. Pansy,' said Gabriel, and considering that the name furnished all necessary information, sat down near his mother and took one of her delicate hands in his own to smooth and fondle. "'Oh, indeed, Mrs. Pansy,' echoed the bishop's wife, smiling still more, and with a slight shrug cast an amused look at Lucy, who in her turn caught Sir Harry's merry eyes and laughed outright. "'Old catamaran,' said Brace loudly. "'Oh, Harry Hush,' interposed Lucy with an anxious glance, "'you shouldn't. Why not? But for the present company I would say something much stronger.' "'Oh, I wish you would,' said Gabriel, easing his stiff collar with one finger. My cloth forbids me to abuse Mrs. Pansy properly.' "'What has she been doing now, Gabriel?' "'Ordering the bishop to have the derby winner removed, mother?' "'The derby winner?' repeated Mrs. Pansy in puzzled tones. "'Is that a horse?' "'A public-house mother. It is in my district, and I have been lately visiting the wife of the landlord, who is very ill. Mrs. Pansy wants the house closed, and the woman turned out into the streets, so far as I can make out.  "'Think of bedlam and pandemonium, my dear. Thank goodness Mrs. Pansy is the sole specimen of her kind. Nature broke them old when that clacking nuisance was turned out. She—' "'Harry, you really must not speak so loud,' Mrs. Pansy might hear. "'Come with me, dear. I must look after our guests, for I am sure Mother is tired.' "'I am tired,' assented Mrs. Pansy, with a faint sigh. "'Thank you, Lucy. I will only make you my representative. Gabriel will stay beside me.' "'Here is Miss Tankard,' observed Harry Brace, in an undertone. "'Oh, she must not come near Mother,' whispered Lucy in alarm. "'Take her to the supper-room, Harry. But she'll tell me the story of how she lost her purse of the army and navy stores, Lucy. "'You can bear hearing it better than Mother can. Besides, she'll not finish it. She never does.' Sir Harry groaned, but like an obedient lover intercepted a withered old dame who was the greatest bore in the town. She usually told a digressive story about a lost purse, but hitherto had never succeeded in getting to the point, if there was one. Accepting the suggestion of supper with alacrity, she drifted away on Sir Harry's arm, and no doubt mentioned the famous purse before he managed to fill her mouth and stop her prosing. Lucy, who had a quiet humor of her own in spite of her demure looks, laughed at the dejection and martyrdom of Sir Harry, and taking the eagerly proffered arm of a calla lieutenant, ostentatiously and hopelessly in love with her, went away to play her part of deputy hostess. She moved from group to group, and everywhere received smiles and congratulations, for she was a general favorite, and with the exception of Mrs. Pansy, everyone approved of her engagement. Behind a floral screen, a band of musicians who called themselves the Yellow Hungarians, and individually possessed the most unpronounceable names, played The Last Waltz, a smooth, swinging melody which made the younger guests long for a dance. In fact, the calla lieutenant boldly suggested that a waltz should be attempted with himself and Lucy to set the example. But his companion snubbed him unmercifully for his boldness, and afterwards restored his spirits by taking him to the supper room. Here they found Miss Tancred in the full flow of her purse story. So Lucy, having pity on her lover, bestowed her escort on the old lady as a listener, and enjoyed supper at an isolated table with Sir Harry. The sucking Wellington could have murdered Brace with pleasure, and very nearly did murder Miss Tancred, for he plied her so constantly with delicacies that she got in digestion and was thereby unable to finish about the purse. Gabriel and his mother were not long left alone, for shortly they approached a brisk old lady, daintily dressed, who looked like a fairy godmother. She had a keen face, bright eyes like those of a squirrel, and in gesture and walk and glance was as restless as that animal. This piece of alacrity was Miss Winchelow, who was the aunt of Mab Arden, the beloved of George Pendle. Mab was with her, and gracious and tall, looked as majestic as any queen, as she paced in her stately manner by the old lady's side. Her beauty was that of Juneau, for she was imperial, and a trifle haughty in her manner. With dark hair, dark eyes, and dark complexion, she looked like an oriental princess, quite different in appearance to her apple-cheeked, silvery-haired aunt. There was something Jewish about her rich eastern beauty, and she might have been painted in her yellow dress as Esther or Rebecca, or even as Jail, who slew Cicera on the going down of the sun. Well, good folks, said the brisk little lady in a brisk little voice, and how are you both, tired, Mrs. Pendle? Of course, what else can you expect with late hours and your delicacies? I don't believe in these social gatherings. Your presence here contradicts that assertion, said Gabriel, giving up his chair. Oh, I am a martyr to duty. I came because Mab must be amused. I only hope she is not disappointed, said Mrs. Pendle kindly, for she knew how things were between her eldest son and the girl. I am sorry, George, is not here, my dear. Oh, I did not expect him to be, replied Mab in her grave contralto voice, and, with a blush, he told me that he would not be able to get leave from his colonel. Ah, his colonel knows what is good for young men, cried Miss Wichelot, work and diet both in moderate quantities. My dear Mrs. Pendle, if you only saw those people in the supper room, simply digging their graves with their teeth, I pity the majority of them to-morrow morning. Have you had supper, Miss Wichelot? asked Gabriel. Oh, yes, a biscuit and a glass of weak whiskey and water. Quite enough, too. Mab here has been drinking champagne, recklessly. Only half a glass, Aunt. Don't take away my character. My dear, if you take half a glass, you may as well finish the bottle for the harm it does you. Champagne is poison. Much or little, it is rank poison. Come away, Miss Arden, and let us poison ourselves, suggested the curate. It wouldn't do you any harm, Mrs. Pendle, cried the little old lady.  Iron and slight stimulants are what you need. I am afraid you are not careful what you eat. I am not a dietitian, Miss Wichelot. I am, my dear ma'am, and look at me, sixty-two and as brisk as a bee. I don't know the meaning of the word illness. In a good hour be it spoken, added Miss Wichelot, thinking she was tempting the gods. By the way, what is this about his lordship being ill? The bishop ill? Faulted Mrs. Pendle half-rising. He was perfectly well when I saw him last. Oh, dear me, what is this? He's ill now, in the library, at all events. Wait, mother, said Gabriel hastily. I will see my father. Don't rise. Don't worry yourself. Pray, be calm. Gabriel walked quickly to the library, rather astonished to hear that his father was indisposed, for the bishop had never had a day's illness in his life. He saw, by the demeanor of the guests, that the indisposition of their host was known, for already an uneasy feeling prevailed, and several people were departing. The door of the library was closed and locked. Kargrim was standing sentinel beside it, evidently irate at being excluded. You can't go in, Pendle, said the chaplain quickly. Dr. Graham is with his lordship. Is this sudden illness serious? I don't know. His lordship refuses to see anyone but the doctor. He won't even admit me, said Kargrim, in an injured tone. What has caused it, asked Gabriel in dismay. I don't know, replied Kargrim a second time. His lordship saw some stranger who departed ten minutes ago, and then he sent for Dr. Graham. I presume this stranger is responsible for the bishop's illness. Like that famous banquet, when Macbeth entertained and awares the ghost of gracious Duncan, the bishop's reception broke up in the most admired disorder. It was not Dr. Pendle's wish that the entertainment should be cut short on his account, but the rumour, magnified greatly, of his sudden illness so dispirited his guests, that they made haste to depart, and within an hour the palace was emptied of all, save its usual inhabitants. Dr. Graham, in attendance on the bishop, was the only stranger who remained, for Lucy sent away even Sir Harry, although he begged hard to stay in hope of making himself useful. And the most unpleasant part of the whole incident was, that no one seemed to know the reason of Bishop Pendle's unexpected indisposition. He was quite well when I saw him last, repeated for Mrs. Pendle, over and over again, and I never knew him to be ill before. What does it all mean? Perhaps Papa's visitor brought him bad news, suggested Lucy, who was hovering round her mother, was smelling salts and a fan. Mrs. Pendle shook her head in much distress. Your father has no secrets from me, she said decisively, and from all I know it is impossible that any news can have upset him so much. Dr. Graham may be able to explain, said Gabriel. I don't want Dr. Graham's explanation, whimpered Mrs. Pendle tearfully. I dislike of all things to hear from a stranger what should be told to myself. As your father's wife, he has no right to shut me out of his confidence, and the library, finished Mrs. Pendle, within a grieved afterthought. Certainly the Bishop's conduct was very strange, and would have upset even a less nervous woman than Mrs. Pendle. Neither of her children could comfort her in any way, for ignorant themselves of what had occurred, they could make no suggestions. Fortunately, at this moment, Dr. Graham, with a reassuring smile on his face, made his appearance, and proceeded to set their minds at ease. Oh, tut tut, my dear lady, he said briskly advancing on Mrs. Pendle, what is all this? The Bishop! The Bishop is suffering from a slight indisposition, brought on by too much exertion and entertaining. He will be all right tomorrow. This visitor's had nothing to do with Papa's illness then? No, Miss Lucy, the visitor was only a decade to clergymen in search of help. Can not I see my husband? was the anxious question of the Bishop's wife. Graham shrugged his shoulders and looked doubtfully at the poor lady. Better not, Mrs. Pendle, he said judiciously. I have given him a soothing draft, and he is about to lie down. There is no occasion for you to worry in the least. Tomorrow morning you will be laughing over this needless alarm. I suggest that you should go to bed, and take a stiff dose of valerian to soothe those shakeneurs of yours. Miss Lucy will see to that. I should like to see the Bishop! persisted Mrs. Pendle, whose instinct told her that the doctor was deceiving her. Well, well, said he good-humoredly. A willful woman will have her own way. I know you won't sleep a wink unless your mind is set at rest, so you shall see the Bishop. Take my arm, please. I can walk by myself. Thank you," replied Mrs. Pendle testily, and, nerved to unusual exertion by anxiety, she walked towards the library, followed by the Bishop's family and his chaplain, which later watched the scene with close attention. She'll collapse after this, said Dr. Graham in an undertone to Lucy. You'll have a wakeful night, I fear. I don't mind that, doctor, so long as there is no real cause for alarm. I give you my word of honour, Miss Lucy, that this is a case of much ado about nothing. Let us hope that such is the case, said Gargram, the Jesuit, in esotic tones, whereupon Graham looked at him with a pronounced expression of dislike. As a man, I don't tell lies, as a doctor I never make false reports, said he coldly. There is no need for your pious hopes, Mr. Gargram. The Bishop was seated at his desk, scribbling idly on his blotting-pad, and rose to his feet with a look of alarm when his wife and family entered. His usually ready colour had disappeared, and he was white-faced and haggard in appearance, looking like a man who had received a severe shock and who had not yet recovered from it. On seeing his wife he smiled reassuringly, but with an obvious effort and hastened to conduct her to the chair he had vacated. Now, my dear, he said when she was seated, this will never do. I am so anxious, George. There is no need to be anxious, retorted the Bishop, in reproving tones. I have been doing too much work of late, and unexpectedly I was seized with a faintness. Graham's medicine and a knight's rest will restore me to my usual strength. It's not your heart, I trust, George. His heart gested the doctor. His lordship's heart is a sound as his digestion. We thought you might have been upset by bad news, papa. I have had no bad news, Lucy. I am only a trifle overcome by late hours and fatigue.  Don't worry yourself unnecessarily. Good night and good sleep. Some valerian for your nerves, Bishop. I have taken something for my nerves, Amy. Rest is all I need just now. Thus reassured, Mrs. Pendle submitted to be led from the library by Lucy. She was followed by Gabriel, who was now quite easy in his mind about his father. Kargram and Graham remained, but the Bishop, taking no notice of their presence, looked at the door through which his wife and children had vanished, and uttered a sound something between a sigh and a groan. Dr. Graham looked anxiously at him, and the look was intercepted by Kargram, who at once made up his mind that there was something seriously wrong, which both Graham and the Bishop desired to conceal. The doctor noted the curious expression in the chaplain's eyes, and with bluff-good humour, which was assumed as he disliked the man, proceeded to turn him out of the library. Kargram, bent on discovering the truth, protested in his usual cat-like way against this sudden dismissal. I should be happy to sit all night with his lordship, he declared. Sit up with your grandmother, cried Graham gruffly. Go to bed, sir, and don't make mountains out of mole-hills. Good night, my lord, said Kargram softly. I trust you will find yourself fully restored in the morning. Thank you, Mr. Kargram. Good night. When the chaplain sightled out of the room, Dr. Graham rubbed his hands and turned briskly towards his patient, who was standing as still as any stone. Staring in a hypnotised sort of way at the reading-lamp on the desk. Come, my lord, said he, touching the bishop on the shoulder, you must tape your composing draft and get to bed. You'll be all right in the morning. I trust so, reprised Pendle, with a groan.  I am upset, doctor, that is all. You have had a severe nervous shock, said Graham sharply, and it will take some time for you to recover from it. This visitor brought you bad news, I suppose. No, said the bishop, whencing he did not. Well, well, keep your own secrets. I can do no more, so I'll say good night. And he held out his hand. Dr. Pendle took it and retained it within his own for a moment. Your allusion to the ring of Paula Cratey's Graham. What of it? I should throw my ring into the sea also, that is all. Ha-ha! You'll have to travel a considerable distance to reach the sea, Bishop. Good night, good night. And Graham, smiling in his dry way, took himself out of the room. As he glanced back at the door, he saw that the bishop was again staring dolly at the reading-lamp. Graham shook his head at the sight and closed the door. It is mind, not matter, he thought, as he put on hat and coat in the hall. The cupboards open, and the skeleton is out. My premonition was true, true. Esculapius, forgive me that I should be so superstitious. The bishop has had a shock. What is it? What is it? That visitor brought bad news. Better to throw physic to the dogs, in this case. Mind diseased, secret trouble. My punishment is greater than I can bear. Put this and that together. There is something serious to matter. Well, well, I'm no Paul Prine. Is his lordship better? Said the soft voice of Cargram at his elbow. Graham wheeled round, much better. Good night, he replied curtly, and was off in a moment. Michael Cargram, the chaplain, was a dangerous man. He was thin and pale, with light blue eyes and sleek, fair hair, and as weak physically as he was strong mentally. In his neat clerical garb, with a slight stoop and meek smile, he looked a harmless, commonplace young curate of the tabby cat kind. No one could be more tactful and ingratiating than Mr. Cargram, and he was greatly admired by the old ladies and young girls of Burmenster. But the men, one and all, even his clerical brethren, disliked and distrusted him, although there was no apparent reason for their doing so. Perhaps his two deferential manners and pronounced effeminacy, which made him shun manly sports, had something to do with his masculine unpopularity. But from the bishop downward he was certainly no favorite, and in every male breast he constantly inspired a desire to kick him. The clergy of the diocese maintained towards him a kind of Dr. Fell attitude, and none of them had more to do with him than they could help. With all the will in the world, and with all the desire to interpret brotherly love in its most liberal sense, the Burmenster Levites found it impossible to like Mr. Cargram. Hence he was a kind of clerical ishmael, and as dangerous within as he looked harmless without. How such a viper came to warm himself on the bishop's hearth no one could say. Mrs. Pansy herself did not know in what particular way Mr. Cargram had wriggled himself, so she expressed it into his present snug position. But to speak frankly, there was no wriggling in the matter, and had the bishop felt himself called upon to explain his business to anyone, he could have given a very reasonable account of the election of Cargram to the post of Chaplain. The young man was the son of an old school fellow to whom Pendle had been much attached, and from whom in the earlier part of his career he had received many kindnesses. This school fellow, he was a banker, had become a bankrupt, a beggar, finally a suicide through no fault of his own, and when dying had commended his wife and son to the bishop's care. Cargram was then fifteen years of age, and being clever and calculating, even as a youth, had determined to utilize the bishop's affection for his father to its fullest extent. He was clever, as has been stated, he was also ambitious and unscrupulous. Therefore he resolved to enter the profession in which Dr. Pendle's influence would be of most value. For this reason, and not because he felt a call to the work, he entered holy orders. The result of his wisdom was soon apparent, for after a short career as a curate in London, he was appointed chaplain to the bishop of Burmenster. So far, so good! The position for a young man of twenty-eight was, by no means, a bad one. The more so as it gave him a capital opportunity of gaining a better one by watching for the vacancy of a rich preferment and getting it from his patron by asking directly and immediately for it. Cargram had in his eye the rectorship of a wealthy, easygoing parish, not far from Burmenster, which was in the gift of the bishop. The present holder was aged and infirm, and given so much to indulgence in port wine that the chances were he might expire within a few months, and then, as the chaplain hoped, the next rector would be the reverend Michael Cargram. Once that firm position was obtained, he could bend his energies to developing into an archdeacon, a dean, even into a bishop, should his craft and fortune serve him as he intended they should. But in all these ambitious dreams there was nothing of religion, or of conscience, or of self-denial. If ever there was a square peg which tried to adapt itself to a round hole, Michael Cargram, allegorically speaking, was that article. With all his love for the father, Dr. Pendle could never bring himself to like the son, and determined in his own mind to confer a benefit on him when possible, if only to get rid of him, but not the rich one of Heathcroft, which was the delectable land of Cargram's desire. The bishop intended to bestow that on Gabriel, and Cargram, in his sneaky way, had gained some inkling of this intention. Afraid of losing his wished-for prize, he was bent upon forcing Dr. Pendle into presenting him with the living of Heathcroft, and to accomplish this amiable purpose with the more certainty he had conceived the plan of somehow getting the bishop into his power. Either to, so open and stainless was Dr. Pendle's life, he had not succeeded in his aims, but now matters looked more promising, for the bishop appeared to possess a secret which he guarded even from the knowledge of his wife. What this secret might be, Cargram could not guess, in spite of his anxiety to do so, but he intended, in one way or another, to discover it and utilize it for the furtherance and attainment of his own selfish ends. By gaining such forbidden knowledge, he hoped to get Dr. Pendle well under his thumb, and once there the prelate could be kept in that uncomfortable position until he gratified Mr. Cargram's ambition. For a humble chaplain to have the whip-hand of a powerful ecclesiastic was a glorious and easy way for a meritorious young man to succeed in his profession. Having come to this conclusion, which did more credit to his head than to his heart, Cargram sought out the servant who had summoned the bishop to see the stranger. A full acquaintance with the circumstances of the visit was necessary to the development of the Reverend Michael's ingenious little plot. This is a sad thing about his lordship's indisposition, said he to the man in the most casual way, for it would not do to let the servant know that he was being questioned for a doubtful purpose. Yes, sir, replied the man, it is most extraordinary. I never knowed his lordship took ill before. I suppose that gentleman brought bad news, sir. Possibly, John, possibly. Was this gentleman a short man with light here? I fancy I saw him. Lord, no, Mr. Cargram. He was tall and lean as a rake. Looked like a military gentleman, sir. Don't know as I call him gentry, either, replied John, half to himself. He wasn't what he thought he was. A decayed clergyman, John, inquired Cargram, remembering Graham's description. That was lots a decay, but no clergy about him, sir. I fancy I know a parson when I seize one. Clergymen don't have scars on their cheeks as I know of. Oh, indeed, said Cargram, mentally noting that the doctor had spoken falsely. So he had a scar. A red scar, sir, on the right cheek, from his temple to the corner of his mouth. He was as dark as pitch in looks with a military mustache and two black eyes like gimlets. His clothes were shabby and his looks was horrid. Bad temper too, sir, I should say, for when he was with his lordship, I hid his voice quite angry like. That ain't no clergy that speak like that to our bishop, Mr. Cargram. And his lordship was taken ill when this visitor departed, John. Right off, sir, when I got back to the library after showing him out, I found his lordship ghastly pale. And his paleness was caused by the noisy conduct of this man? But not been caused by anything else, sir. Dear me, dear me, this is much to be deplored, said Cargram, in his softest manner, and a clergyman too.  He was more like a tramp or a gypsy. I wouldn't have left him near the plate, I know. We must not judge too harshly, John. Perhaps this poor man was in trouble. It didn't look like it, Mr. Cargram. He went in and came out quite cocky-like. I wonder his lordship didn't send for the police. His lordship is too kind-hearted, John. This stranger had a scar, you say? Yes, sir, a red scar on the right cheek. Dear me, no doubt he's been in the wars. Good night, John. Let us hope that his lordship will be better after a night's rest. Good night, sir. The chaplain walked away with a satisfied smile on his meek face. I must find the man with the scar, he thought. And then, who knows? End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5 The Darby Winner As its name denotes, Burmenster was built on a hill, or to speak more precisely, on an eminence elevated slightly above the surrounding plain. In former times it had been surrounded by aguish marshes, which had rendered the town unhealthy, but now that modern enterprise had drained the Finlands, Burmenster was as salubrious a town as could be found in England. The rich black mud of the former bogs now yielded luxury and harvests, and in autumn the city, with its mass of red-roofed houses climbing upwards to the cathedral, was islanded in a golden ocean of wheat and rye and bearded barley. For the purposes of defense, the town had been built originally on the slope of the hill, under the very shadow of the Minster, and round its base the massive old walls yet remained, which had squeezed the city into a huddled mass of uncomfortable dwellings within its narrow girdle. But now opid and life extended beyond these walls, and houses, streets, villas, and gardens spread into the plain on all sides. Broad white roads ran to Southbury Junction ten miles away. To manufacturing iron grip the smoke of whose furnaces could be seen on the horizon, and to many a tiny hamlet in sleepy town buried amid the rich meadowlands and golden cornfields. And high above all lorded the stately cathedral with its trio of mighty towers, whence morning and evening melodious bells pealed through the peaceful lands. Beyond the walls the modern town was made up of broad streets and handsome shops. On its outskirts appeared comfortable villas and stately manors, gardens, and woody parks, in which dwelt the aristocracy of Bremester. But the old town, with its tall houses and narrow lanes, was given over to the plebeians, save in the cathedral close, where dwelt the cannons, the dean, the archdeacon, and a few old-fashioned folk who remained by preference in their ancestral dwellings. From this close, which surrounded the open space, wherein the cathedral was built, narrow streets trickled down to the walls, and here was the Seven Dials, the white chapel, the very worst corner of Bremester. The Bremester police declared that this network of lanes and alleys and melodious cul-de-sacs was as dangerous a neighborhood as any London slum, and they were particularly emphatic in denouncing the public house known as the Derby Winner, and kept by a certain William Mosque, who was a sporting scoundrel and a horsey scamp. This ill-famed hostel was placed at the foot of the hill in what had once been the main street, and being near the east gate, caught in its web most of the thirsty passersby who entered the city proper, either for sightseeing or business. It affected a kind of spurious respectability, which was all on the outside, for within it was as iniquitous a den as could well be conceived, and was usually filled with horse-copers and sporting characters who made bets and talked racing and rode or drove fiery steeds, and who lived on and swindled through the noblest of all animals. Mr. Mosque, a lean lightweight who wore loud-checked suits, tight in the legs, and short in the waist, was the presiding deity of this inferno, and, as the oar moves to this aramane's, Gabriel Pendle was the curate of the district, charged with the almost hopeless task of reforming his sporting parishioners. And all this, with considerable irony, was placed almost in the shadow of the cathedral towers. Not a neighborhood for Mr. Cargram to venture into, since many sites therein must have displeased his exact tastes. Yet two days after the reception at the palace the chaplain might have been seen daintily picking his way over the cobblestone pavements. As he walked, he thought, and his thoughts were busy with the circumstances which had led him to venture his saintly person so near the spider's web of the derby winner. The bishop, London, Curiosity, Gabriel, this unpleasant neighborhood, so ran the links of his chain of thought. The day following his unexpected illness brought no relief to the bishop, at all events to outward seeming, for he was paler and more haggard than ever in looks, and as doer as a bear in manner. With Mrs. Pendle he strove to be his usual cheerful self, but with small success, as occasionally he would steal an anxious look at her, and he deep size, expressive of much inward trouble. All this was noted by Cargram, who carefully strove, by sympathetic looks and dexterous remarks, to bring his superior to the much desired point of unburdening his mind. Gabriel had returned to his lodgings near the east gate, and to his hopeless task of civilizing his degraded centoirs. Lucy, after the manner of maids in love, was building air castles with Sir Harry's assistance, and Mrs. Pendle kept her usual watch on her weak heart and fluctuating pulse. The bishop thus escaped their particular notice, and it was mainly Cargram who saw how distraught and anxious he was. As for Dr. Graham, he had departed after a second unsatisfactory visit, swearing that he could do nothing with a man who refused to make a confidant of his doctor. Bishop Pendle was therefore wholly at the mercy of his suspicious chaplain, to be spied upon, to be questioned, to be watched, and to be made a prey of in his first weak moment. But the worried man, filled with some unknown anxiety, was quite oblivious to Cargram's maneuvers. For some time the chaplain, in spite of his watchfulness, failed to come upon anything tangible, likely to explain what was in the bishop's mind. He walked about restlessly, he brooded continuously, and instead of devoting himself to his work in his usual regular way, occupied himself for long hours in scribbling figures on his blotting paper and muttering at times in anxious tones. Cargram examined the blotting paper and strained his ears to gather the sense of the mutterings, but in neither case could he gain any clue to the bishop's actual trouble. At length, it was on the morning of the second day after the reception, Dr. Pendle abruptly announced that he was going up to London that very afternoon, and would go alone. The emphasis he laid on this last statement still further aroused Cargram's curiosity. Shall I not accompany your lordship? he asked, as the bishop restlessly paced the library. No, Mr. Cargram, why should you? said the bishop, abruptly and testily. Your lordship seems ill, and I thought there is no need for you to think, sir. I am not well, and my visit to London is in connection with my health. Or with your secret thought the chaplain, deferentially bowing. I have every confidence in Dr. Graham continued to Pendle, but it is my intention to consult a specialist. I need not go into details, Mr. Cargram, as they will not interest you. Oh, your lordship, your health is my constant thought. Your anxiety is commendable, but needless, responded the bishop dryly. I am due at Southbury this Sunday, I believe. There is a confirmation at St. Mark's, your lordship. Very good. You can make the necessary arrangements, Mr. Cargram. Today is Thursday, I shall return tomorrow night, and shall rest on Saturday until the evening, when I shall ride over to Southbury, attend at St. Mark's, and return on Sunday night. Does not your lordship desire my attendance? asked Cargram, although he knew that he was the morning preacher at the cathedral on Sunday. No, answered Dr. Pendle curtly, I shall go and return alone. The bishop looked at Cargram, and Cargram looked at the bishop, each striving to read the other's thoughts, then the latter turned away with a frown, and the former, much exercised in his mind, advanced towards the door of the library. Dr. Pendle called him back. Not a word about my health to Mrs. Pendle, he said sharply. Certainly not, your lordship. You can rely upon my discretion in every way, replied the chaplain, with emphasis, and glided away as soft-footed as any panther, and as dangerous. I wonder what that fellow suspects, thought the bishop went alone. I can see that he is filled with curiosity, but he can never find out the truth, or even guess at it. I am safe enough from him. All the same, I'll have a fool for my next chaplain, fools are easier to deal with. Cargram would have given much to have overheard this speech, but as the door and several passages were between him and the talker, he was ignorant of the incriminating remarks the bishop had let slip. Still baffled, but still curious, he busied himself with attending to some business of the sea, which did not require the personal supervision of Dr. Pendle, and when that prelate took his departure for London by the three o'clock train, Cargram attended him to the station full of meekness and irritating attentions. It was with a feeling of relief that the bishop saw his officious chaplain left behind on the platform. He had a secret, and with the uneasiness of a loaded conscience, fancied that everyone saw that he had something to conceal, particularly Cargram. In the presence of that good young man, this spiritual Lord, high placed and powerful, felt that he resembled an insect under a microscope, and that Cargram had his eye to the instrument. Conscience made a coward of the bishop, but in the case of his chaplain, his uneasy feelings were in some degree justified. On leaving the railway station, which was on the outskirts of the modern town, Cargram took his way through the brisk population which thronged the streets, and wondered in what manner he could benefit by the absence of his superior. As he could not learn the truth from Dr. Pendle himself, he thought that he might discover it from an investigation of the bishop's desk. For this purpose he returned to the palace forthwith, and on the plea of business shut himself up in the library. Dr. Pendle was a careless man, and never locked up any drawers, even those which contained his private papers. Cargram, who was too much of a sneak to feel honorable scruples, went through these carefully, but in spite of all his predisposition to malignity, was unable to find any grounds for suspecting Dr. Pendle to be in any serious trouble. At the end of an hour he found himself as ignorant as ever, and made only one discovery of any note, which was that the bishop had taken his checkbook with him to London. To many people this would have seemed a natural circumstance, as most men with banking accounts take their checkbooks with them when going on a journey. But Cargram knew that the bishop usually preferred to fill his pockets with loose cash when absent for a short time, and this deviation from his ordinary habits appeared to be suspicious. Thought the chaplain rubbing his chin, I wonder if that so-called clergyman wanted money. If he had wished for a small sum, the bishop could easily have given it to him out of the cash box. Going by this reasoning he must have wanted a lot of money, which argues blackmail. Has he taken both checkbooks or only one? The reason for this last query was that Bishop Pendle had accounts in two different banks, one in Bermanster, as became the Bishop of the Sea, the other in London, in accordance with the dignity of a spiritual Lord of Parliament. A further search showed Mr. Cargram that the Bermanster checkbook had been left behind. Hmm, said the chaplain again, that man must have gone back to London. Dr. Pendle is going to meet him there and draw money from his town bank to pay what he demands. I'll have a look at the butts of that checkbook when it comes back. The amount of the check may prove much. I may even find out the name of this stranger. But all this, as Cargram very well knew, was pure theory. The bishop might have taken his checkbook to London for other reasons than paying blackmail to the stranger, for it was not even certain that there was any such extortion in the question. Dr. Pendle was worried it was true, and after the departure of his strange visitor, he had been taken ill. But these facts proved nothing, and after twisting and turning them in every way, and connecting and disconnecting them with the absence of the London checkbook, Mr. Cargram was forced to acknowledge that he was beaten for the time being. Then he fancied he might extract some information from Gabriel, relative to his father's departure from London, for Mr. Cargram was too astute to believe in the, consulting a specialist, excuse. Still, this might serve as a peg whereon to hang his inquiries and develop further information, so the chaplain, after meditating over his five o'clock cup of tea, took his way to the East Gate in order to put Gabriel unawares into the witness box. Yet, for all these doings and suspicions, Cargram had no very good reason, save his own desire to get Dr. Pendle under his thumb. He was groping in the dark, he had not a shred of evidence to suppose that the uneasiness of the bishop was connected with anything criminal. Nevertheless, the chaplain put himself so far out of his usual habits as to venture into the unsavory neighbourhood wherein stood the derby winner. Truly, this man's cobweb spinning was of a very dangerous character when he took so much trouble to weave the web. As in Excelsior, the shades of night were falling fast when Cargram found himself at the door of the curate's lodging. Here he met with a check, for Gabriel's landlady informed him that Mr. Pendle was not at home, and she did not know where he was or when he would be back. Cargram made the sweetest excuses for troubling the good lady, left a message that he would call again, and returned along Monk Street on his way back to the palace through the new town. By going in this direction he passed the derby winner, not without intention, for it was this young man's belief that Gabriel might be haunting the public house to see Mrs. Mosque or, as was more probable to the malignant chaplain, her handsome daughter. As he came abreast of the derby winner, it was not too dark but that he could see a tall man standing in the doorway. Cargram at first fancied that this might be Gabriel, and paced slowly along so as to seize an opportunity of addressing him. But when he came almost within touching distance, he found himself face to face with a dark-looking gypsy, fiery-eyed and dangerous in appearance.  But what mostly attracted Cargram's attention was a red streak which traversed the right cheek of the man from ear to mouth. At once he recalled John's description, a military-looking gentleman with a scar on the right cheek. He thought, hmm, this then is the bishop's visitor. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume This engaging individual looked at Cargram with a fierce air. He was not sober and had just reached the quarrelsome stage of intoxication, which means objection to every one and everything. Consequently he cocked his hat defiantly at the curate, and although he blocked up the doorway, made no motion to stand aside. Cargram was not ill-pleased at this obstinacy, as it gave him an opportunity of entering into conversation with the so-called Decade clergyman, who was as unlike a parson as a rabbit is like a terrier. Do you know if Mr. Pendle is within, my friend? asked the chaplain with bland politeness. The stranger started at the mention of the name. His face grew paler, his scar waxed redder, and with all his Dutch courage there was a look of alarm visible in his cold eyes. I don't know, said he insolently, yet with a certain refinement of speech, I shouldn't think it likely that a pothouse like this would be patronized by a bishop. Uh, pardon me, sir, I speak of Mr. Gabriel Pendle, the son of his lordship. Then pardon me, sir, mimicked the man, if I say that I know nothing of the son of his lordship, and what's more, I'm damned if I want to. I see you are more fortunate in knowing his lordship himself, said the chaplain, with great simplicity. The stranger plucked at his worn sleeve with a look of irony. Do I look as though I were acquainted with bishops? said he scoffingly. Is this the kind of coat likely to be admitted into Episcopalian palaces? Yet it was admitted, sir, if I am not mistaken, you called at the palace two nights ago. Did you see me? Certainly I saw you, replied Cargram, saving his conscience with the Jesuitic saying that the end justifies the means, and I was informed that you were a decayed clergyman seeking assistance. I have been most things in my time, observed the stranger gloomily, but not a parson. You are one, I perceive. Cargram bowed. I am the chaplain of Bishop Pendle. And the busybody of Burmester, I should say, rejoined the man with a sneer. See here, my friend, and he wrapped Cargram on the breast with a shapely hand. If you interfere in what does not concern you, there will be trouble. I saw Dr. Pendle on private business, and as such it has nothing to do with you.  Cried the stranger with sudden ferocity.  Now you know. And with a fierce glance the man moved out of the doorway and sauntered round the corner before Cargram could make up his mind how to resent this insolence. Said he to himself, with a glance at the tall retiring figure, that is a nice friend for a bishop to have. He's a jailbird, if I mistake not, and he is afraid of my finding out his business with Pendle. Birds of a feather, sighed Mr. Cargram, entering the hotel. I fear, I sadly fear, that his lordship is but a whited sepulcher. A look into the bishop's past might show me many things of moment, and the fat living of Heathcroft seemed almost within Cargram's graft as he came to this conclusion. Now then, sir, interrupted a sharp but pleasant female voice, and what may you want? Mr. Cargram wheeled round to answer this question, and found himself face-to-face with a bar, glittering with brass and crystal and bright-hued liquors in fat glass barrels, also with an extremely handsome young woman dressed in an astonishing variety of colors. She was high-colored and frank-eyed, with a great quantity of very black hair twisted into many amazing shapes on the top of her head. In manner she was as brisk as a bee, and as restless as a butterfly, and being adorned with a vast quantity of bracelets and lockets and brooches, all of gaudy patterns, jingled at every movement. This young lady was Miss Bell Mosque, whom the frequenters of the Darby winner called a dashing beauty, and Mrs. Pansy a painted jade. With her glittering ornaments, her bright blue dress, her high color, and a general air of vivacity, she glowed and twinkled in the lamp-light like some gorgeous plumaged parrot, and her free speech and constant chatter might have been ascribed to the same bird. Miss Mosque, I believe, said the polite Cargram, marveling that this gaudy female should be the refined Gabriel's notion of feminine perfection. I am Miss Mosque, replied Bell, taking a comprehensive view of the sleek black-clothed parson. What can I do for you? I am Mr. Cargram, the Bishop's chaplain, Miss Mosque, and I wish to see Mr. Pendle, Mr. Gabriel Pendle. Bell flushed as red as the reddest cabbage rose, and with downcast eyes wiped the counter briskly with a duster. Why should you come here to ask for Mr. Pendle? said she, and guarded tones. I called at his lodgings, Miss Mosque, and I was informed that he was visiting a sick person here. My mother, replied Bell, not knowing what an amazing lie the chaplain was telling. Yes, Mr. Pendle comes often to see my mother. Is he here now? asked Cargram, noticing the hesitancy at the end of her sentence, because I wish to speak with him on business. He is upstairs. I daresay he'll be down soon. Oh, don't disturb him for my sake, I beg. But if you will permit me, I shall go up and see Mrs. Mosque. Here comes Mr. Pendle now, said to Bell abruptly, and withdrew into the interior of the bar, as Gabriel appeared at the end of the passage. He started and seemed uneasy when he recognized the chaplain. Cargram! he cried, hurrying forward. Why are you here? And he gave a nervous glance in the direction of the bar, a glance which the chaplain saw and understood, but discreetly left unnoticed. I wish to see you, he replied, with great simplicity. They told me at your lodgings that you might be here, so— Why? interrupted Gabriel sharply. I left no message to that effect. Cargram saw that he had made a mistake. I speak generally, my dear friend, generally. He said in some haste, your worthy landlady mentioned several houses in which you were in the habit of seeing sick people, amongst others, this hotel. Mrs. Mosque is very ill. I have been seeing her, said Gabriel shortly. Aye, aye, you have been seeing Mrs. Mosque. Gabriel changed color and cast another glance towards the bar, for the significance of Cargram's speech was not lost on him. Do you wish to speak with me? he asked coldly. I should esteem it a favour if you would allow me a few words, said Cargram politely. I'll wait for you outside. And in his turn the chaplain looked towards the bar. Thank you, I can come with you now, was Gabriel's reply, made with a burning desire to knock Cargram down. Mrs. Mosque, I am glad to find that your mother is easier in her mind. It's all due to you, Mr. Pendle, said Bell, moving forward with a toss of her head, directed especially at Mr. Cargram. Your visits do, mother, a great deal of good. I am sure they do, said the chaplain, not able to forego giving the girl a scratch of his claws. Mr. Pendle's visits here must be delightful to everybody. I daresay, retorted Bell, with heightened color, other people's visits would not be so welcome. Perhaps not, Mrs. Mosque, Mr. Pendle has many amiable qualities to recommend him. He is a general and deserved favorite. Come, come, Cargram, interposed Gabriel anxiously, for the fair Bell's temper was rapidly getting the better of her. If you are ready, we shall go. Good evening, Mrs. Mosque. Good evening, Mr. Pendle, said the barmaid, and directed a spiteful look at Cargram, for she saw plainly that he had intentionally deprived her of a confidential conversation with Gabriel.  As he walked out, arm in arm, with the reluctant Pendle, Bell banged the puters and glasses about with considerable energy, for the significant demeanor of Cargram annoyed her so much that she felt a great inclination to throw something at his head. But then, Miss Mosque was a high-spirited girl, and believed in actions rather than speech, even though she possessed a fair command of the latter. Well, Cargram, said Gabriel, when he found himself in the street with his uncongenial companion, what is it? It's about the bishop. My father, is there anything to matter with him? I fear so, he told me he was going to London. Oh, what a—that, said Gabriel impatiently, he told me the same thing yesterday. Has he gone? He left by the afternoon train. Do you know the object of his visit to London? No. What is his object? He goes to consult a specialist about his health. What? cried Gabriel anxiously. Is he ill? I think so. Some nervous trouble brought on by worry. By worry? Has my father anything on his mind likely to worry him to that extent? Cargram coughed significantly. I think so, said he again. He has not been himself since the visit of that stranger to the palace. I fancy the man must have brought bad news. Did the bishop tell you so? No, but I am observant, you know. Privately, Gabriel considered that Cargram was a great deal too observant, and also of a meddlesome nature. Else, why had he come to spy out matters which did not concern him? Needless to say, a Gabriel was thinking of Bell at this moment. However, he made no comment on the chaplain's speech, but merely remarked that, doubtless, the bishop had his own reasons for keeping silent, and advised Cargram to wait until he was consulted in connection with the matter before troubling himself unnecessarily about it. My father knows his own business best, finished Gabriel stiffly, if you will forgive my speaking so plainly. Certainly, certainly, Pendle, but I owe a great deal to your father, and I would do much to save him from annoyance. By the way, within abrupt change of subject, do you know that I saw the stranger who called at the palace two nights ago during the reception? When? Where? At this hotel this evening. He looks a dangerous man. Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. It seems to me, Cargram, that you are making a mountain out of a molehill. A stranger sees my father, and afterwards you meet him at a public house. There's nothing strange in that. You forget, hinted Cargram sweetly, this man caused your father's illness. We can't be sure of that, and in any case my father is quite clever enough to deal with his own affairs. I see no reason why you should have hunted me out to talk such nonsense. Good night to you, Cargram. And with a curt nod the curate stalked away, considerably annoyed by the meddlesome spirit manifested by the chaplain. He had never liked the man, and now that he was in this interfering mood liked him less than ever. It would be as well, thought Gabriel, that Mr. Cargram should be dismissed from his confidential office as soon as possible. Otherwise he might cause trouble, and Gabriel mentally thought of the high-colored young lady in the bar. His conscience was not at ease regarding his admiration for her, and he dreaded lest the officious Cargram should talk about her to the bishop. Altogether the chaplain, like a hornet, had annoyed both Dr. Pendle and his son, and the bishop in London and Gabriel and Berminster, were anything but well disposed towards this clerical busybody who minded everybody's business instead of his own. It is such people who stir up muddy water and cause mischief. Meanwhile the busybody looked after the curate with an evil smile, and gratified at having aroused such irritation as the abrupt parting signified, turned back to the derby winner. He had seen Bell, he had spoken to Gabriel, he had even secured an unsatisfactory conversation with the unknown man. Now he wished to question Mrs. Mosque and equate himself with her nature and attitude. Also he desired to question her concerning the military stranger, and with this resolve presented himself again before Miss Mosque, smiling and undaunted. What is it? asked the young lady who had been nursing her grievances.  Why? was Bell's blunt demand. My reasons are for Mrs. Mosque's ears alone. Oh, are they? Well, I'm afraid you can't see my mother. In the first place she's too ill to receive anyone, and in the second my father does not like clergymen. Dear, dear, not even Mr. Pendle? Mr. Pendle is an exception, retorted Bell, blushing, and again fell to wiping the counter in a fury so as to keep her hands from Mr. Cargram's ears. I wish to see Mrs. Mosque particularly reiterated Cargram, who was bent upon carrying his point. If not, your father will do. My father is absent in Southbury. Why do you want to see my mother? I'll tell her that myself, with your permission, said Cargram suavely. You shan't, then, replied Bell, and flung down her duster with sparkling eyes. In that case I must go away, replied Cargram, seeing he was beaten, and I thank you, Miss Mosque, for your politeness. By the way, he added, as he half returned, will you tell that gentleman with a scar on the cheek that I wish to see him also? Seems to me you wish to see everybody about here, said Bell scornfully. I'll tell Mr. Gentham if you like. Now go away. I'm busy. Gentham, repeated Cargram as he walked homeward, now I wonder if I'll find that name in the Bishop's checkbook. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 7 An Interesting Conversation When Mr. Cargram took an idea into his head, it was not easy to get it out again, and to this resolute obstinacy he owed no small part of his success. He was like the famous drop of water, and would wear away any human stone, however hard it might be. Again and again, when baffled, he returned with gentle persistence to the object he had in view, and however strong of Will his adversary happened to be, that Will was bound, in the long run, to yield to the incessant attacks of the chaplain. At the present moment he desired to have an interview with Mrs. Mosque, and he was determined to obtain one in spite of Bell's refusal. However, he had no time to waste on the persuasive method, as he wished to see the envelope before the Bishop returned. To achieve this end he enlisted the services of Mrs. Pansy. That good lady sometimes indulged in a species of persecution she termed district visiting, which usually consisted in her thrusting herself at untoward times into poor people's houses and asking them questions about their private affairs. When she had learned all she wished to know, and had given her advice in the tone of a command not to be disobeyed, she would retire, leaving the evidence of her trail behind her in the shape of a nauseous little tract, with an abusive title. It was no use any poor creature refusing to see Mrs. Pansy, or she forced herself into the most private chambers, and never would retire unless she thought fit to do so of her own Will. It was for this reason that Cargram suggested the good lady should call upon Mrs. Mosque, for he knew well that neither the father nor the daughter, nor the whole assembled domestics of the hotel, would be able to stop her from making her way to the bedside of the invalid, and in the devastated rear of Mrs. Pansy, the chaplain intended to follow. His principal object in seeing Mrs. Mosque was to discover what she knew about the man called Jentham. He was lodging at the Darby winner, as Cargram ascertained by later inquiry, and it was probable that the inmates of the hotel knew something as to the reasons of his stay in Berminster. Mr. Mosque, being as obstinate as a mule, was not likely to tell Cargram anything he desired to learn. Belle, detesting the chaplain, as she took no pains to conceal, would probably refuse to hold a conversation with him. But Mrs. Mosque, being weak-minded and ill, might be led by dexterous questioning to tell all she knew. And what she did know might, in Cargram's opinion, throw more light on Jentham's connection with the bishop. Therefore, the next morning, Cargram called on the Archdeacon's widow to unveil her into persecuting Mrs. Mosque with a call. Mrs. Pansy, with all her acuteness, could not see that she was being made use of, luckily for Cargram. I hear the poor woman is very ill, sighed the chaplain, after he had introduced the subject, and I fear that her daughter does not give her all the attention an invalid should have. The Jezebel, growled Mrs. Pansy, what can you expect from that flaunting hussy? She is a human being, Mrs. Pansy, and I expect at least human feelings. Can you get blood out of a stone, Mr. Cargram? No, you can't. Is that red-cheeked Dutch doll a pelican to pluck her breasts for the benefit of her mother? No, indeed. I daresay she passes her sinful hours drinking with young men. I'd whip her at a cart's tail if I had my way. Gabriel Pendle is trying to bring the girl to a sense of her errors. Rubbish! She's trying to bring him to the altar more like. I'll go with you, Mr. Cargram, and see the minks. I have long thought that it is my duty to reprove her and warn her mother of such goings-on. As for that weak-minded young Pendle, cried Mrs. Pansy, shaking her head furiously, I pity his infatuation.  Can a fool produce sense? No. I am afraid you will find the young woman difficult to deal with. That makes me all the more determined to see her, Mr. Cargram. I'll tell her the truth for once in her life. Merry young Pendle indeed, snorted the good lady. I'll let her see. Speak to her mother first, urged Cargram, who wished his visit to be less warlike, as more conducive to success. I'll speak to both of them. I daresay one is as bad as the other. I must have that public house removed. It's an eyesore to Burmenster. A curse to the place. It ought to be pulled down, and the sight plowed up and sown with salt. Come with me, Mr. Cargram, and you shall see how I deal with iniquity. I hope I know what is due to myself. Where is Miss Norsham? asked the chaplain, when they fell into more general conversation, on their way to the Derby winner. Husband hunting. Dean Alder is showing her the tombs in the cathedral. Tombs indeed. It's the altar she's interested in. My dear lady, the dean is too old to marry. He is not too old to be made a fool of, Mr. Cargram. As for Daisy Norsham, she'd marry Methuselah to take away the shame of being single. Not that the match with Alder will be out of the way, for she's no chicken herself. I rather thought Mr. Dean had an eye to Miss Wichlow. Stuff! rejoined Mrs. Pansy with a sniff. She's far too much taken up with dieting people to think of marrying them. She actually weighs out the food on the table when meals are on. No wonder that poor girl Mab is thin. But she isn't too thin for her height, Mrs. Pansy. She seems to me to be well-covered. You didn't notice her at the palace then, snapped the widow, avoiding a direct reply. She wore a low-necked dress, which made me blush. I don't know what girls are coming to. They had to go about like so many eaves if they could. Oh, Mrs. Pansy! Remonstrated the chaplain in a shocked tone. Well, it's in the Bible, isn't it, man? You aren't going to say Holy Rit is indecent, are you? Well, really, Mrs. Pansy. Couragement as I am. I must say that there are parts of the Bible unfit for the use of schools. To the pure all things are pure, Mr. Gargram. You have an impure mind, I fear. Remember the thirty-nine articles and speak becomingly of holy things. However, let that pass, added Mrs. Pansy in livelier tones. Here we are. And there's that hussy hanging out from an upper window, like the Jezebel she is. This remark was directed against Belle, who apparently in her mother's room was at the window amusing herself by watching the passersby. When she saw Mrs. Pansy and the chaplain stalking along in black garments and looking like two birds of prey, she hastily withdrew, and by the time they arrived at the hotel, was at the doorway to receive them, with fixed bayonets. Young woman, said Mrs. Pansy severely, I have come to see your mother, and she cast a disapproving look at Belle's gay pink dress. She is not well enough to see either you or Mr. Gargram, said Belle coolly, all the more reason that Mr. Gargram, as a clergyman, should look after her soul, my dear girl. Thank you, Mr. Pendle is doing that. Indeed, Mr. Pendle then combines business with pleasure. Belle quite understood the insinuation conveyed in this last speech, and firing up would have come to high words with the visitors, but that her father made his appearance, and as she did not wish to draw forth remarks from Mrs. Pansy about Gabriel in his hearing, she discreetly held her tongue. However, as Mrs. Pansy swept by in triumph, followed by Gargram, she looked daggers at them both, and bounced into the bar, where she drew beer for thirsty customers in a flaming temper. She dearly desired a duel of words with a formidable visitor. Mosque was a lean tall man, with a pimpled face and a military moustache. He knew Mrs. Pansy, and like most other people, detested her with all his heart. But she was, as he thought, a great friend of Sir Harry Brace, who was his landlord, so for diplomatic reasons he greeted her with all deference, hat in hand. I have come with Mr. Gargram to see your wife, Mr. Mosque, said the visitor. Thank you, ma'am. I'm sure it's very kind of you, replied Mosque, who had a husky voice suggestive of beer. She'll be honoured to see you, I'm sure. This way, ma'am. Is she very ill? demanded the chaplain, as they followed Mosque to the back of the hotel, and up a narrow staircase. She ain't well, sir, but I can't say she's dying. We do all we can to make her easy. Oh! from Mrs. Pansy, I hope your daughter acts toward her mother like as a daughter should. I'd like to see the person that says she don't, cried Mr. Mosque with sudden anger, I'd knock his head off. Bell's a good girl, none better. Let us hope your trust in her is justified, sighed the mischief-maker, and passed into the sick room, leaving Mosque with an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. If the man had a tender spot in his heart it was for his handsome daughter, and it was with a vague fear that after presenting his wife to her visitors he went downstairs to the bar. Mrs. Pansy had a genius for making mischief by a timely word. Bell, said he gruffly, what's that old cat hinting at? What about, asked Bell, tossing her head till all her ornaments jingled, and wiping the counter furiously, about you. She don't think I should trust you. What right has she to talk about me, I'd like to know, cried Bell, getting as read as a peony. I've never done anything that anyone can say a word against me. Who said you had, snapped her father, but that old cat hints. Let her keep her hints to herself then, because I'm young and good-looking, she wants to take my character away. Nasty old puss that she is. That's just it, my gal. You're too young and good-looking to escape folks talking, and I hear that young Mr. Pendle comes round when I'm away. Who says he doesn't, Father? It's to see Mother. He's a parson, ain't he? Yes, and he's gentry too. I won't have him paying attention to you. You'd better wait till he does, flashed out Bell. I can take care of myself, I hope.  I know, as you're talking nonsense, Father, time enough for you to interfere when there's cause. Now, you clear out and let me get on with my work. To reassure by the girl's manner, Mosque began to think that Mrs. Pansey's hints were all moonshine, and after cooling himself with a glass of beer, went away to look into his betting book with some horsey pals. In the meantime, Mrs. Pansey was persecuting his wife, a meek, nervous little woman who was propped up with pillows in a large bed, and seemed to be quite overwhelmed by the honour of Mrs. Pansey's call. So you are weak in the back, are you? said the visitor in loud tones. If you are, what right have you to marry and bring feeble children into the world? Bell isn't feeble, said Mrs. Mosque weakly. She's a fine, set-up gal. Set-up and stuck-up, retorted Mrs. Pansey, I tell you what, my good woman, you ought to be downstairs looking after her. Lord, Mom, there ain't nothing wrong. I do devoutly hope. Nothing as yet, but you shouldn't have young gentlemen about the place. I can't help it, Mom, said Mrs. Mosque beginning to cry. I'm sure we must earn our living somehow. This is an hotel, isn't it? And Mosque's a popular character, ain't he? I'm sure it's hard enough to make ends meet as it is. We all rent for half a year and can't pay, and won't pay, wailed Mrs. Mosque, unless my husband comes home on skin-flint. Comes home on skin-flint, woman. What do you mean?  Put his shirt on skin-flint, indeed. He's a good man to me, anyhow, cried Mrs. Mosque, plucking up spirit. Drink and betting, continued Mrs. Pansey, pretending not to hear this feeble defiance, what can we expect from a man who drinks and bets, and associates with bad characters put in cargram, seizing his chance? That he don't, sir, said Mrs. Mosque with energy, may I beg of you to put a name to one of them. Gentham, said the chaplain softly, who is Gentham, Mrs. Mosque? I know no more nor a babe unborn, sir. He'd been here two weeks, and I did see him twice afore my back got so bad as to force me to bed, but I don't see why you called him bad, sir. He pays his way. Oh, groaned Mrs. Pansey, is it the chief end of man to pay his way? It is with us, mom, retorted Mrs. Mosque meekly. There ain't no denying it, and Mr. Gentham do pay proper, though he is a gypsy. He's a gypsy, as he said cargram alertly. So he says, sir, and I knows, as he goes sometimes to that camp of gypsies on South Very Heath. Where does he get his money from? Better not inquire into that, Mr. Cargram, said Mrs. Pansey with a sniff. Oh, Mr. Gentham's honest, I'm sure, mom. He's been at the Gold-Diggins and have made a trifle of money. Indeed, I don't know where he ain't been, sir. The four parts of the compass is all plain-sailin' to him, and his air-breath escapes is too awful. I shivers and shudders when I ears him. What is he doing here? He's on business, but I don't know what kind. Oh, he knows how to hold his tongue, does Gentham. He is a gypsy. He consorts with gypsies. He has money, and no one knows where he comes from, summed up cargram. I think, Mrs. Pansey, we may regard this man as a dangerous character. I shouldn't be surprised to hear he was an anarchist, said Mrs. Pansey, who knew nothing about the man. Well, Mrs. Mosque, I hope we've cheered you up. I'll go now. Read this tract, bestowing a grimy little pamphlet, and don't see too much of Mr. Pendle. But he comforts me, said poor Mrs. Mosque. He reads beautiful. Mrs. Pansey grunted. Bold as she was, she did not like to speak quite plainly to the woman, as too free speech might inculpate Gabriel and bring the bishop to the rescue. Besides, Mrs. Pansey had no evidence to bring forward to prove that Gabriel was in love with Belle Mosque. Therefore, she said nothing, but like the Mariner's parrot, thought the more. Shaking out her dark skirts, she rose to go with another grunt full of unspoken suspicions. Good day, Mrs. Mosque, said she, pausing at the door, when you are low-spirited ascent for me to cheer you up. Mrs. Mosque attempted a curtsy in bed, which was a failure owing to her sitting position, but Mrs. Pansey did not see the attempt, as she was already half-way down the stairs, followed by Cargram. The chaplain had learned a trifle more about the mysterious gentham, and was quite satisfied with his visit, but he was more puzzled than ever. A tramp, a gypsy, an adventurer, what had such a creature in common with Bishop Pendle. To Mr. Cargram's eye the affair of the visit began to assume the proportions of a criminal case. But all the information he had gathered proved nothing, so it only remained to wait for the bishop's return, and see what discoveries he could make in that direction. If Gentham's name was in the checkbook, the chaplain would be satisfied that there was an understanding between the pair. And then his next move would be to learn what the understanding was. When he discovered that, he had no doubt that he would have Dr. Pendle under his thumb, which would be a good thing for Mr. Cargram and an unpleasant position for the bishop. Mrs. Pansey stopped down to the bar, and, seeing Bell therein, silently placed a little tract on the counter. No sooner had she left the house than Bell snatched up the tract and, rushing to the door, flung it after the good lady. You needed more than I do, she cried, and bounced into the house again. It was with a quiver of rage that Mrs. Pansey turned to the chaplain. She was almost past speech, but with some difficulty and much choking managed to convey her feelings in two words. The creature gasped Mrs. Pansey, and shook her skirts as if to rid herself of some taint contracted at the derby winner. The bishop returned on Saturday morning, instead of on Friday night, as arranged, and was much more cheerful than when he left, a state of mind which irritated Cargram in no small degree, and also perplexed him not a little. If Dr. Pendle's connection with Jentham was dangerous, he should still be ill at ease and anxious, instead of which he was almost his old genial self, when he joined his wife and Lucy at their afternoon tea. Sir Harry was not present, but Mr. Cargram supplied his place, an exchange which was not at all to Lucy's mind. The Pendle's treated the chaplain always with a certain reserve, and the only person who really thought him the good young man he appeared to be was the bishop's wife. But kindly Mrs. Pendle was the most innocent of mortals, and all geese were swans to her. She had not the necessary faculty of seeing through a brick wall with which nature had gifted Mrs. Pansey in so extraordinary a degree. As a rule, Mr. Cargram did not come to afternoon tea, but on this occasion he presented himself, ostensibly to welcome back his patron, in reality, to watch him. Also he was determined, at the very first opportunity, to introduce the name of Jentham and observe what effect it had on the bishop. With these little plans in his mind, the chaplain crept about the tea-table like a tame cat, and handed round cakes and bread with his most winning smile. His pale face was even more inexpressive than usual, and none could have guessed, from outward appearance, his malicious intents. Least of all the trio he was with. They were too upright themselves to suspect evil in others. I am glad to see your better bishop, said Mrs. Pendle, languidly trifling with a cup of tea. Your journey has done you good. Change of air, change of air, my dear, a wonderful restorative. Your business was all right, I hope? Oh, yes! Indeed, I hardly went up on business, and what I did do was a mere trifle, replied the bishop, smoothing his apron. Has Gabriel been here to-day, he added, obviously desirous of turning the conversation. Twice, said Lucy, who presided over the tea-table, and the second time he told Mama that he had received a letter from George. Ah, yeah, a letter from George! Is he quite well, Lucy? We shall see that for ourselves this evening, papa. George is coming to Berminster, and will be here about ten o'clock tonight. How vexing, exclaimed Dr. Pendle, I intended going over to Southbury this evening, but I can't miss seeing George. Right over to-morrow morning, Bishop, suggested his wife. Sunday morning, my dear? Well, papa, said Lucy, smiling, you're not a strict sabbatarian, you know. I am not so good as I ought to be, my dear, said Dr. Pendle, playfully pinching her pretty ear. Well, well, I must see George. I'll go to-morrow morning at eight o'clock. You'll send a telegram to Mr. Vassar to that effect, if you please, Mr. Cargram. Say that I regret not being able to come to-night. Certainly, my lord, in any case I am going to Berminster this evening. You are usually more stay at home, Mr. Cargram. Thank you, Lucy. I will take another cup of tea. I do not care for going out at night as a rural, my lord, observed the chaplain in his most sanctimonious tone, but duty calls me into Berminster. I am desirous of comforting poor sick Mrs. Mosque at the Derby winner. Oh, that is Gabriel's pet invalid, cried Lucy, peering into the teapot. He says Mrs. Mosque is a very good woman. Let us hope so, observed the bishop, stirring his new cup of tea. I do not wish to be uncharitable, my dear, but if Mrs. Pansy is to be believed, that public house is not conducted so carefully as it should be. But is Mrs. Pansy to be believed, Bishop? asked his wife, smiling. I do not think she would tell a deliberate falsehood, my love. All the same, she might exaggerate a little into much, said Lucy, with a pretty grimace. What is your opinion of this hotel, Mr. Cargram? The chaplain saw his opportunity and seized it at once. My dear Miss Pendle, he said, showing all his teeth, as the Derby winner is the property of Sir Harry Brace, I wish I could speak well of it. But Kandor compels me to confess that it is a badly conducted house. Tuttut, said the bishop, what is this? You don't say so. Harry shall shut it up at once, cried Lucy, the pretty Puritan. It is a resort of bad characters I fear, said Cargram, and Mrs. Mosque, being an invalid, is not able to keep them away. What about the landlord, Mr. Cargram? Aha! replied the chaplain, turning towards Mrs. Pendle, who had asked this question, he is a man of lax morals. His boon companion is a tramp called Jentham. Jentham, repeated Dr. Pendle, in so complacent a tone, that Cargram, with some vexation, saw that he did not associate the name with his visitor, and who is Jentham? Oh, I hardly know, said the chaplain, making another attempt. He is a tramp, as I have reason to believe, and consorts with gypsies. I saw him myself the other day, a tall, lean man with a scar. The bishop rose, and walking over to the tea-table, placed his cup carefully thereon, with a scar, he repeated in low tones, a man with a scar. Jentham. Indeed. What do you know of this person, Mr. Cargram? Oh, absolutely nothing rejoined the chaplain, with a satisfied glance at the uneasy face of his questioner. He is a gypsy, he stays at the Derby winner, and pays regularly for his lodgings, and his name is Jentham. I know no more. I don't suppose there is more to know, cried Lucy likely. If there is, the police will find out, Miss Pendle. The bishop frowned. As the man, so far as we know, has done nothing against the laws, said he quickly, I see no reason why the police should be mentioned in connection with him. Evidently, from what Mr. Cargram says, he is a rolling stone, and probably will not remain much longer in Burminster. Let us hope that he will take himself and his bad influence away from our city. In the meantime, it is hardly worth our while to discuss a person of so little importance. In this skillful way the bishop put an end to the conversation, and Cargram, fearful of rousing his suspicions, did not dare to resume it. In a little while, after a few kind words to his wife, Dr. Pendle left the drawing-room for his study. As he passed out, Cargram noticed that the haggard look had come back to his face, and once or twice he glanced anxiously at his wife. In his turn Cargram examined Mrs. Pendle, but saw nothing in her manner likely to indicate that she shared the uneasiness of her husband, or knew the cause of his secret anxiety.  Evidently the bishop's mind was set at rest by her placid looks, for it was with a sigh of relief that he left the room. Cargram noted the look and heard the sigh, but was wholly in the dark regarding their meaning. Though I dare say they have to do with genthem and this secret, he thought, when bowing himself out of the drawing-room, whatever the matter may be, Dr. Pendle is evidently most anxious to keep his wife from knowing of it. All the better! He rubbed his hands together with a satisfied smirk. Such anxiety shows that the secret is worth learning. Sooner or later I shall find it out, and then I can insist upon being the rector of Heathcroft. I have no time to lose, so I shall go to the Derby winter to-night, and see if I can induce this mysterious genthem to speak out. He looks a drunken dog, so a glass of wine may unloosen his tongue. From this speech it can be seen that Mr. Cargram was true to his Jesuitic instincts, and thought no action dishonorable so long as it aided him to gain his ends. He was a methodical scoundrel too, and arranged the details of his scheme with the utmost circumspection. For instance, prior to seeing the man with the scar, he thought it advisable to find out if the bishop had drawn a large sum of money while in London for the purpose of bribing the creature to silence. Therefore, before leaving the palace, he made several attempts to examine the checkbook. But Dr. Pendo remained constantly at his desk in the library, and although the plotter actually saw the checkbook at the elbow of his proposed victim, he was unable, without any good reason, to pick it up and satisfy his curiosity. He was therefore obliged to defer any attempt to obtain it until the next day, as the bishop would probably leave it behind him when he rode over to Southbury. This failure vexed the chaplain, as he wished to be forearmed in his interview with Gentham. But as there was no help for it, he was obliged to put the cart before the horse, in other words, to learn what he could from the man first, and settle the bribery question by a peep into the checkbook afterwards. The ingenious Mr. Cargram was by no means pleased with this slip-slop method of conducting business. There was method in his villainy. That evening, after dispatching the telegram to Southbury, the chaplain repaired to the Derby winner and found it largely patronized by a noisy and thirsty crowd. The weather was tropical, the workmen of Burmenster had received their wages, so they were converting the coin of the realm into beer and whisky as speedily as possible. The night was calm and comparatively cool with the spreading darkness, and the majority of the inhabitants were seated outside their doors, gossiping and taking the air. Children were playing in the street, their shrill voices at times interrupting the continuous chatter of the women, and the Derby winner, flaring with gas, was stuffed as full as it could hold with artisans, workmen, Irish harvesters, and stablemen, all more or less exhilarated with alcohol. It was by no means a scene into which the fastidious Cargram would have ventured of his own free will, but his desire to pump genthem was greater than his sense of disgust, and he walked briskly into the hotel to where Mr. Mosque and Bell were dispensing drinks as fast as they were able. The crowd, having an inherent respect for the clergy, as became the inhabitants of a cathedral city, opened out to let him pass, and there was much less swearing and drinking when his black coat and clerical collar came into view. Mosque saw that the appearance of the chaplain was detrimental to business, and resenting his presence gave him but a surly greeting. As to Bell, she tossed her head, shot a withering glance of defiance at the bland newcomer, and withdrew to the far end of the bar. My friend, said Cargram in his softest tones, I have come to see your wife and inquire how she is. She's well enough, growled Mosque, pushing a foaming tankard towards an expectant navvy, and what's more, sir, she's asleep, sir, so you can't see her. Oh, I should be sorry to disturb her, Mr. Mosque, so I will postpone my visit till a more fitted occasion. You seem to be busy to-night. So busy that I've got no time for talking, sir. Oh, far be it from me to distract your attention, my worthy friend, was the chaplain's bland reply, but with your permission I will remain in this corner and enjoy the humours of the scene. Mosque inwardly cursed the visitor for making this modest request, as he detested Parsons on account of their aptitude to make teetotallers of his customers. He was a brute in his way, and a radical to boot, so if he had dared, he would have driven forth Cargram with a few choice oaths. But as his visitor was the chaplain of the ecclesiastical sovereign of Berminster, and was acquainted with Sir Harry Brace, the owner of the hotel, and further, as Mosque could not pay his rent, and was already in bad odor with his landlord, he judged it wise to be diplomatic, lest a word from Cargram to the bishop and Sir Harry should make matters worse. He therefore grudgingly gave the required permission. Though this man had a sight fit for the likes of you, sir, he grumbled, waving his hand.  My duty has carried me into much more unsavory localities, my friend. The worse the place, the more is my presence as a clergyman necessary. You ain't gonna preach, sir? cried Mosque in alarm. Oh, no, that would indeed be casting pearls before swine, replied Cargram in his cool tones, but I will observe and reflect. The landlord looked uneasy. I know as the place is rough, he said apologetically, but take my fault.  Oh, make your mind easy, Mosque. It is not my place to carry tales to your landlord, and I am aware that the lower orders cannot conduct themselves with decorum, especially on Saturday night. I repine that such a scene should be possible in a Christian land, but I don't blame you for its existence. That's all right, sir, said Mosque with a sigh of relief. I'm rough, but honest. Whatever lies may be told to the contrary. If I can't pay my rent, that ain't my fault, I hope, as it ain't to be expected as I can do miracles. The age of miracles has passed, my worthy friend, replied Cargram in conciliatory tones. We must not expect the impossible nowadays. By the way, with a sudden change, have you a man called Jentham here? Yes, I have, growled Mosque, looking suspiciously at his questioner. What do you know of him, sir? Nothing, but I take an interest in him, as he seems to be one who has known better days. He don't know them now at all events, Mr. Cargram. He owes me money for his last week he does. He paid all right at first, but he don't pay now. Indeed, said the chaplain, bricking up his ears, he owes you money. That he does, more nor too quid, sir, but he says he'll pay me soon. Ah, he says he'll pay you soon, repeated Cargram. He expects to receive money then. I suppose so, the Lord knows. Big pardon, sir, though goodness knows where it's coming from. He don't work or get wages as I can see. I think I know, thought Cargram, then added aloud, Is the man here? In the coffee-room yonder, sir, half drunk he is and lying like a good one. The yarns he reels off is wonderful. No doubt a man like that must be interesting to listen to. With your permission, Mr. Mosque, I'll go into the coffee-room. Straight ahead, sir, will you take something to drink, if I may make so bold, Mr. Cargram? No, my friend, no, thank you all the same. And with a nod, Cargram pushed his way into the coffee-room to see the man with the scar. And of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 Of The Bishop's Secret by Fergus Hume, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 9 An Exciting Adventure Mr. Cargram found a considerable number of people in the coffee-room, and these, with tankards and glasses before them, were listening to the conversation of Gentham. Tobacco smoke filled the apartment with a thick atmosphere of fog, through which the gas lights flared in a nebulous fashion, and rendered the air so hot that it was difficult to breathe in spite of the windows being open. At the head of the long table sat Gentham, drinking brandy and soda, and speaking in his cracked, refined voice, with considerable spirit, his rat-like, quick eyes glittering the while with alcoholic luster. He seemed to be considerably under the influence of drink, and his voice ran up and down from base to trouble as he became excited in narrating his adventures. Whether these were true or false, Cargram could not determine, for although the man trenched again and again on the marvelous, he certainly seemed to be fully acquainted with what he was talking about, and related the most wonderful stories in a thoroughly dramatic fashion. Like Ulysses, he knew men and cities, and appeared to have traveled as much as that famous globetrotter. In his narration he passed from China to Chile, sailed forth to the pole, steamed south to the horn, described the paradise of the South Seas, and discoursed about the wild wastes of snowy Siberia. The capitals of Europe appeared to be as familiar to him as the chair he was seated in, and the steps of Russia, the deserts of Africa, the sheep runs of Australia, were all mentioned in turn as adventure after adventure fell from his lips. And mixed up with these geographical accounts were thrilling tales of treasure hunting, of escapes from savages, of perilous deeds in the secret places of great cities, and details of blood and war and lust and hate all told in a fiercely dramatic fashion. The man was a tramp, a gypsy, a ragged, penniless rolling stone, but in his own way he was a genius. Targrum wondered, with all his bravery and endurance and resource, that he had not made his fortune. The eloquent scamp seemed to wonder also. For, said he, striking the table with his fist, I have never been able to hold what I won. I've been a millionaire twice over, but the gold wouldn't stay. It drifted away, it was swept away, it vanished like Macbeth's witches into thin air.   Yet here I am, sitting in a Burmester gutter, but I don't stay in it. By blank, he confirmed his purpose with an oath, not I. I've got my plans laid, and they'll lift me up to the stars yet. Have you the money, mister? inquired a skeptical listener. What's that to you? cried Jentham, and finished his drink. Yes, I have money. He set down his empty glass with a bang. At least I know where to get it. Bah! you fools! One can get blood out of a stone if one knows how to go about it. I know! I know! Why, Tom Tiddler's ground isn't far from your holy township, and he began to sing. Southbury he's Tom Tiddler's ground, gold and silver, are there to be found. It's dropped by the priest, kicked up by the nave. For the one is a coward, the other is brave. More brandy, waiter, make it stiff, sunny, stiff, stiff, stiff.  As certainly as though the man had given chapter and verse, Kargrim understood his enigmatic stave. His mind flashed back to the memory that Dr. Pendle intended to write over to Southbury in the morning, across the heat. Without doubt he had agreed to meet there this man who boasted that he could get blood out of the stone, and the object of the meeting was to bribe him to silence. But however loosely Jentham alluded to his intention of picking up gold, he was cunning enough, with all his excitement, to hold his tongue as to how he could work such a miracle. Undoubtedly there was a secret between Dr. Pendle and this scam, but what it might be Kargrim could by no means guess. Was Jentham a disreputable relation of the bishops? Had Dr. Pendle committed a crime in his youth for which he was now being blackmailed? What could be the nature of the secret which gave this unscrupulous blackard a hold on a dignitary of the church? Kargrim's brain was quite bewildered by his conjectures. Either too Jentham had been in the blabbing stage of intoxication, but after another glass of drink he relapsed into a sullen, silent condition, and with his eyes on the table pulled fiercely at his pipe so that his wicked face looked out like that of a devil from amid the rolling clouds of smoke. His audience waited open-mouthed for more stories, but as their entertainers seemed too moody to tell them any more, they began to talk amongst themselves, principally about horses and dogs. It was now growing late, and the most respectable of the crowd were moving homeward. Kargrim felt that to keep up the dignity of his cloth he should depart also, for several looks of surprise were cast in his direction. But Jentham and his wild speeches fascinated him, and he lurked in his corner, watching the sullen face of the man until the two were left the sole occupants of the room.  After a keen glance he suddenly broke into a peal of discordant laughter which died away into a savage and menacing growl. Hello! he grumbled. Here is the busybody of Burmenster! And what may you want, Mr. Paul Pry? A little civility in the first place, my worthy friend, said Kargrim in silky tones, for he did not relish the insolent tone of the satirical scamp. I am no friend to spies.   If you aren't a spy, why do you come sneaking round here? I came to see Mrs. Mosk, explained the chaplain in a mighty dignified manner, but she is asleep, so I could not see her. In passing the door