rived in front of the block, Mrs. Burke hitched her horse,
and left Maxwell to his own devices. He proceeded to hunt up the post
office; and as the mail was not yet distributed, he had to wait some
time, conscious of the fact that he was the center of interest to the
crowd assembled in the room. Finally, when he gained access to the
delivery window, he was greeted by a smile from the postmistress, a
woman of uncertain age, who remarked as she handed him his letters:

"Good morning, Mr. Maxwell. Glad to meet you. I'm a Presbyterian
myself; but I have always made it a point to be nice to everybody. You
seem to have quite a good many correspondents, and I presume you'll be
wantin' a lock box. It's so convenient. You must feel lonesome in a
strange place. Drop in and see mother some day. She's got curvature of
the spine, but no religious prejudices. She'll be right glad to see
you, I'm sure, even though she's not 'Piscopal."

Maxwell thanked her, and inquired the way to the Senior Warden's
office, to which she directed him.

Three doors below the post office was a hallway and a flight of stairs
leading up to Mr. Bascom's sanctum. As he ascended, Maxwell bethought
him of the Bishop's hint that this was the main stronghold for the
exercise of his strategy. The Senior Warden, for some reason or other,
had persistently quarreled with the clergy, or crossed them. What was
the secret of his antagonism? Would he be predisposed in Maxwell's
favor, or prejudiced against him? He would soon discover--and he
decided to let Bascom do most of the talking. Reaching the first
landing, Donald knocked on a door the upper panel of which was filled
with glass, painted white. On the glass in large black letters was
the name: "SYLVESTER BASCOM."

The Senior Warden sat behind a table, covered with musty books and a
litter of letters and papers. In his prime he had been a small man;
and now, well past middle age, he looked as if he had shrunk until he
was at least five sizes too small for his skin, which was sallow and
loose. There was a suspicious look in his deep-set eyes, which made
his hooked nose all the more aggressive. He was bald, except for a few
stray locks of gray hair which were brushed up from his ears over the
top of his head, and evidently fastened down by some gluey cosmetic.
He frowned severely as Maxwell entered, but extended a shriveled, bony
hand, and pointed to a chair. Then placing the tips of his fingers
together in fron