Smith, what the hell are you doing
with your collar back to front?"

Harrison Smith gave a hurried explanation.

"But I thought that job was cleared up," said Bolt.

"Maybe it is, but there's a chance of a big coup that no one expected.
Now, if you care to take a hand."

Mr. Bolt fancied himself as a mimic, indeed he harboured the opinion
that he was a peer even to the late Sir Henry Irving in the matter of
"take offs." He could imitate a cat or a Chinaman, while his thumb
nail impressions of sundry Hebraic neighbours were only rivalled by his
flawless caricatures of natives of Germany or the New Hebrides. But
best of all he loved to assume the inflexion, guise and bearing of a
member of the clergy--a circumstance very possibly explained by the
fact that his own private life was as far removed from the office of
virtue as could be imagined.

"Be unafraid, my son," quoth he. "If your heart is full speak into my
listening ear and may a blessing fall on your confession." Then
fashioning a trumpet with his two hands he bellowed like a fog horn:
"Becky! A drop of whiskey hot for the gent." And while the
refreshment was being procured he observed parenthetically: "A nice
little piece, ain't she? Very smart and dossy. Come on, Smith, my
boy--my jolly old beau--dear old cracker, soak up the juice of the
barley and expound the tale of woe."

Harrison Smith wasted no time in explaining the case while Bolt
listened with great concentration, nodding approval at this point or
that.

"Hm! Worth trying anyway," he agreed. "What do you want me to do?"

"Take over my place at Clyst St. Mary. Can't explain why but I've a
sort of notion things may happen there. It's a queer household--lot of
smart girls looking after an old woman--Barraclough's mother."

"What's she like?"

"Never got near enough to find out. Decent enough old thing. Goes to
church a lot."

"Shrewd?"

"Never struck me so at a distance. Might be anything--bit of a
fool--mostly are--that old country sort."

Mr. Bolt mused.

"Goes to church, does she." His eyes travelled over Harrison Smith's
black garments. "Why didn't you call?"

"Didn't strike me. Fancy she knows very little."

"'Curs to me," said Bolt, "I might do the clergyman stunt myself in
those parts. I've got some stuff. A bit of the old Wesley--'Quiet
harbourage from the turmoil of city life, my dear lady. An occasional
hour in your beautiful garden.' That's the ticket."