o me good--it's full of just what I want." He gave Copplestone
another look and then glanced at the letters which he held in his hand.
"Are you going to the post-office?" he asked. "May I come?--I want to
go there, too."

The two young men walked out of the inn, and Copplestone led the way
down the road towards the northern quay. And once they were well out
of earshot of the "Admiral's Arms," and the two or three men who
lounged near the wall in front of it, the curate turned to his
companion with a sly look.

"Of course you're Mr. Copplestone?" he remarked. "You can't be anybody
else--besides, I heard the landlady call you so."

"Yes," replied Copplestone, distinctly puzzled by the other's manner.
"What then?"

The curate laughed quietly, and putting his fingers inside his heavy
overcoat, produced a card which he handed over.

"My credentials!" he said.

Copplestone glanced at the card and read "Sir Cresswell Oliver," He
turned wonderingly to his companion, who laughed again.

"Sir Cresswell told me to give you that as soon as I conveniently could,"
he said. "The fact is, I'm not a clergyman at all--not I! I'm a private
detective, sent down here by him and Petherton. See?"

Copplestone stared for a moment at the wide-brimmed hat, the round
collar, the eminently clerical countenance. Then he burst into laughter.
"I congratulate you on your make-up, anyway!" he exclaimed. "Capital!"

"Oh, I've been on the stage in my time," responded the private detective.
"I'm a good hand at fitting myself to various parts; besides I've played
the conventional curate a score of times. Yes, I don't think anybody
would see through me, and I'm very particular to avoid the clergy."

"And you left the stage--for this?" asked Copplestone. "Why, now?"

"Pays better--heaps better," replied the other calmly. "Also, it's more
exciting--there's much more variety in it. Well, now you know who I
am--my name, by-the-bye is Gilling, though I'm not the Reverend Gilling,
as Mrs. Wooler will call me. And so--as I've made things plain--how's
this matter going so far?"

Copplestone shook his head.

"My orders," he said, with a significant look, "are--to say nothing
to any one."

"Except to me," responded Gilling. "Sir Cresswell Oliver's card is my
passport. You can tell me anything."

"Tell me something first," replied Copplestone. "Precisely what are you
here for? If I'm to talk confidentially to you, you must talk in the same
fashion t