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JUST as P.C. Postle emerged from his fowl-house to receive the complaint of the stranger with the auburn moustache, Janet entered the vicarage drawing-room.

"A gentleman has called to see you, sir," she an- nounced.

"To see me?" queried Smith, looking up from the writing-table where he was engaged in glancing through the pages of an illustrated paper.

u Yes, sir. He said Mr. Willis sent him over from The Grange. He wouldn't give his name, sir."

"Always a suspicious sign, that," murmured Smith. "By the way, whom did he happen to ask for?"

"For you, Mr. Warren."

"That is to say for Mr. Alfred Warren?"

"Yes, sir."

"Janet, haven't I told you a thousand times that I am not Mr. Alfred Warren; but Mr. Smith?"

"Yes, Mr. Warren."

"Show him in," he said wearily.

When the door once more opened, Smith rose to find himself facing a little, ferret-faced man, sandy where he was not bald, and with a chin that manifested a marked inclination to retreat down his collar.

As he entered, he gave a swift glance round the room, his shifty little eyes blinking craftily. At the 241