'You are a good Samaritan, Miss Whichello. I hope she is better?'

'I think so, but I did not see her, as she is asleep. I spoke with her
daughter, however.'

'I trust you were not molested by that ruffian Jentham, who stays at The
Derby Winner,' said Cargrim, with hypocritical anxiety.

'Oh, no! he is away on Southberry Heath with his gipsy friends, I
believe--at least, Miss Mosk told me so. Good-night, Mr Cargrim,' she
added, evidently not anxious to prolong the conversation. 'I wish to get
under shelter before the storm breaks.'

'Let me see you to your door at least.'

Miss Whichello rejected this officious offer by dryly remarking that she
had accomplished the worst part of her journey, and bidding the chaplain
'Good-night,' tripped across the square to her own Jenny Wren nest.
Cargrim looked after her with a doubtful look as she vanished into the
darkness, then, turning on his heel, walked swiftly down the street
towards Eastgate. He had as much aversion to getting wet as a cat, and
put his best foot foremost so as to reach the palace before the rain
came on. Besides, it was ten o'clock--a late hour for a respectable
parson to be abroad.

'She's been trying to see Jentham,' thought Mr Cargrim, recalling Miss
Whichello's nervous hesitation. 'I wonder what she knows about him. The
man is a mystery, and is in Beorminster for no good purpose. Miss
Whichello and the bishop both know that purpose, I'm certain. Well!
well! two secrets are better than one, and if I gain a knowledge of them
both, I may inhabit Heathcroft Rectory sooner than I expect.'

Cargrim's meditations were here cut short by the falling of heavy drops
of rain, and he put all his mind into his muscles to travel the faster.
Indeed, he almost ran through the new town, and was soon out on the
country road which conducted to the palace. But, in spite of all his
speed, the rain caught him, for with an incessant play of lightning and
a constant roll of thunder came a regular tropical downpour. The rain
descended in one solid mass, flooding the ground and beating flat the
crops. Cargrim was drenched to the skin, and by the time he slipped
through the small iron gate near the big ones, into the episcopalian
park, he looked like a lean water-rat. Being in a bad temper from his
shower bath, he was almost as venomous as that animal, and raced up the
avenue in his sodden clothing, shivering and dripping. Suddenly he heard
the quick trot of a horse, and gu