LITMIR.BIZ

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wish it, of course. And it's not a question of expense, but of your own good." Miss Asprey's voice was astringent, but her companion's china-blue eyes were serene.

      'I'll ask for poached eggs, next,' she decided. 'And, after that, something that's really tasty.'

      The postman's knock shook the house, and Rose stalked from the room. She returned, a minute later, with a letter on a pewter salver, which she offered to Miss Asprey.

      Miss Mack was still dreaming of savoury pudding, made—perhaps—with blood, so that she was not watching Miss Asprey with her usual dog-like fidelity. But, at the sound of a sharply-drawn breath, she looked up, to see Miss Asprey staring at an open letter.

      It was obvious that she was upset, for she waited to regain complete self-control before she spoke to the parlourmaid.

      "Rose, go to the Rectory and tell the Rector I wish to see him immediately, please." Then she turned to Miss Mack with another request. "When the Rector comes, bring him to me, in the parlour, please."

      Miss Mack obediently left her unfinished supper and waited in the dark porch, like a patient sentinel. When the Rector's huge figure loomed through the twilight, he was several paces in front of Rose, although that well-trained person was marching at the double.

      As the Rector looked down into the perpetually smiling face of the little woman, she delivered her employer's message.

      "Miss Asprey's expecting you in the parlour."

      Like a cyclone, the Rector whirled into the living-room, which, like the dining-room, was panelled and dimly-lit. There were violet window-curtains, a few books and a bowl of white lilac—but not a single cushion, rug, or newspaper. Miss Asprey was seated on an oaken settle, with a high back; and, as he entered, the Rector received his impression of her as one whose heart had never been warmed at the fires of Life.

      To his mind, she seemed to have withdrawn from grosser contact into the purity of her own soul. His surprise and shock was therefore the greater, when she spoke to him, without any greeting.

      "I sent for you, Rector, because I have just received an anonymous letter. It is an attack on my moral character. Will you read it, please?"

      He stared at her with incredulous horror, for once, at a loss for words.

      "But—but—it's impossible," he said, at last.

      Miss Asprey held out the letter, with fingers which trembled slightly.

      "Read it," she repeated.

      To his eternal credit—for he was consumed by curiosity—the Rector refused.

      "No," he said. "You may wish me to read it tonight, but you'll probably think differently, tomorrow."

      Miss Asprey shook her gleaming silver head.

      "I've nothing to fear from tomorrow, and I fear no one," she told him. "But, after reading this, perhaps, I fear myself. It fills me with doubts—makes me wonder if I know my own heart—as it really is. If I were a Roman Catholic, I should unburden myself in the Confessional. As it is, I have no other course but to ask you to read this letter, and then—if you can—grant me Absolution."

      "If that is really your wish, then I'll read it."

      Having made his protest, the Rector picked up the letter briskly. It was printed, in block letters, on paper of excellent quality, and was correctly composed and spelt. It began with I the sentence—'You presumed to sit in judgment on unfortunate women whom you dragged out of the gutter, probably against their own wish, but are you, yourself better than the lowest of these?' It continued in the same strain, each line covered with the slime of insinuation, as though a slug had crawled over the pages.

      The Rector exploded several times as he read it, and, at the end, he crushed it up angrily between his strong fingers and threw it on the floor.

      "Foul," he declared. "Any anonymous letter is a knife in the back, but this one is specially outrageous...Can you tell me, Miss Asprey, if you have any—any suspicions as to the writer?"

      "No," replied Miss Asprey. "Besides, the writer does not matter. I only want to know what you think of me."

      True to his impulsive nature, the Rector acted without forethought. On this occasion, his muscles leaped to obey his instinct, before his mind creaked into motion, so that he was betrayed into a theatrical gesture. Stooping down, he kissed Miss Asprey's thin white hand, in silent homage.

      Before he could feel ashamed, he was rewarded by the glitter of suppressed tears in her eyes.

      "That's what I think," he told her. "But I also think that some evil-minded person is jealous of you."

      As the door creaked slightly he looked up sharply, and then picked up the letter. Presently he glanced towards Miss Mack, who sat, watchfully, in the shadow of the wall, and pounced on her with a question.

      "How do you spell 'judgment,' Miss Mack?"

      As he had expected, she spelt it, 'judgement'.

      "Exactly," he muttered. "Thank you." He turned to Miss Asprey. "This letter has been written by an educated person. Now, what, exactly, is your wish? Shall I try to trace it back to its source?"

      "But can you do that? It is anonymous."

      "I haven't the foggiest idea. But I have a friend—a chap with nothing to do, who's potty on puzzles. He'd enjoy getting his teeth into it."

      Miss Asprey's answer was to replace the letter on the salver, and to apply a lighted match to one corner.

      "That is what I'm going to do with the letter," she said. "My mind is now completely at rest again."

      As she watched the paper blaze and then crumble into dust, her expression grew tranquil and the strain faded from her eyes.

      But the Rector was suddenly rent with a vague foreboding of future evil. Acting on impulse, he picked up the envelope, which had begun to catch fire, and pinched out the charred patch.

      "May I keep this?" he asked. "It may come in useful, supposing there's another letter."

      Miss Asprey hesitated and then bowed her stately head.

      "Certainly," she said. "But I am confident the matter is ended...Thank you for coming. Good night."

      Miss Mack pattered across to the door, which she opened, to make the Rector understand that he was dismissed. He lingered, as he wondered whether he should try to repeat his success, and kiss the hand of the afflicted lady in farewell. But she seemed to have forgotten his existence, so he followed Miss Mack's hint, and left.

      He carried away with him a memory of Miss Asprey's face glimmering whitely against the dark wood, as though she were already enshrined, and fading away to the bleak immortality of a saint.

      He walked slowly back to the Rectory, in a depressed mood, and horrified at the mere idea that his perfect village sheltered a poisonous mind. But as he passed each person of the limited social circle in review, he was able to shake his head and brace his shoulders, as though he had shaken off a load.

      No one he knew could have done this thing. To his mind, it was obvious that this letter had been written by some unbalanced person who had known Miss Asprey in the past, and who bore her a grudge. The fact that the envelope was stamped with the village post-mark was of small importance, as this subterfuge could be arranged.

      When he entered his cheerful study, the whisky was on the table and the Wireless turned on. The essential parts of a fat spaniel—named 'Charles', after Dickens—were crowded on the doctor's lap, while the dog, from his intelligent look, was helping their guest to solve a chess-problem in the evening paper.

      "Well?" asked Dr. Perry eagerly.

      "Well," echoed the Rector, crossing to the table and juggling hospitably with the various bottles. "Soda or plain water, doctor? Say 'when'."

      Dr. Perry bit his lip and pulled Charles' silky ears for moral support, before he repeated his question.

      "Well?

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