On a cold and frosty morning in November Anstice was sitting over his solitary breakfast when the telephone-bell rang; and he left his coffee to grow cold while he answered the summons.

It was Sir Richard who was speaking; and even over the wire Anstice thought he detected an unusual note in the older man's voice.

"That you, Anstice? Are you busy, or can you spare me a few minutes this morning?"

"I'll come to Greengates, of course, if you want me, Sir Richard," said Anstice immediately. "But I hope you are not ill—nor Lady Laura?"

"No, my sister's all right—so am I." There was a pause. "But I—well, I'm rather worried, and I want to see you."

"Very well, sir. I'll be round at eleven. Will that suit you?"

"Yes, eleven will do well. Au revoir till then," and Sir Richard rang off with a promptitude which forbade further discussion for the moment.

As he went back to his cooling coffee Anstice wondered vaguely what Sir Richard could have to say; but since speculation was mere idle waste of time he dismissed the matter from his mind and finished his breakfast in haste.

It was nearly noon when he drove his car up to the great hall door of Greengates; but the words of apology for his tardy arrival died on his lips when he caught sight of Sir Richard's face.

"I say, I'm afraid you're ill, after all!" Anstice was genuinely concerned; and Sir Richard's strained features relaxed into a smile.

"No, I'm perfectly well. Only, as I told you, I have been upset this morning; and—well, I'll explain and you will see there is something to worry about."

Without more ado he walked over to his substantial roll-top desk, and unlocking a drawer took from thence an envelope which he handled gingerly as though it were unpleasing to him.

From the envelope he drew a sheet of thin paper; and Anstice, watching him closely, felt still more mystified by his distasteful expression.

For a moment Sir Richard hesitated, still holding the sheet by the tips of his fingers. Then, as though he had taken a sudden resolve, he turned to Anstice abruptly.

"Look here, Anstice, this abominable thing reached me this morning. Now of course I don't need you to tell me that the proper place for it is the fire, and if it had not been for one circumstance connected with it, it would have been in the flames by now. But as things are"—he broke off suddenly and held the thin sheet out to the other man—"well, read it, and then tell me what you think is the best course to pursue."

With a premonition of evil for which he could not account, Anstice took the paper from Sir Richard and, turning to the window so that the pale autumn sunlight might fall upon the letter, he read the few lines scrawled in the middle of the sheet.

That was all. There was no heading, no signature, not even the cynical assurance of well-wishing which is the hall-mark, so to speak, of the typical anonymous letter; and as Anstice read the ill-written words his first sensation was of wonder as to who his secret enemy might be.

When he had finished he turned the sheet over in his hands to see if perchance the writer might have more to say; but the other side of the paper was blank; and he looked at Sir Richard with an expression of utter bewilderment.

"Well?" Sir Richard interrogated him with interest. "Pretty sort of document, eh? I suppose the writing conveys nothing to your mind?"

"Nothing at all." Holding the paper to the light, Anstice examined the ill-formed characters more closely. "It does not resemble any handwriting I know. But I suppose"—he smiled rather grimly—"the test of a successful anonymous correspondent is to disguise his writing efficiently."

"Yes." Sir Richard stretched out his hand for the paper and Anstice yielded it to him without regret. "Well, it is pretty evident that someone has—to put it vulgarly—got his knife into you. The question is, who can it be?"

"Well, it's a question I'm not clever enough to answer," returned Anstice, with assumed lightness. "All men have enemies, I suppose, and I won't swear I've never made any in my life. But I can't at the moment recall one who would stoop to fight with such dirty weapons as these."

"Dirty—that's just the word for it," said Sir Richard disgustedly. "But you know, Anstice, this sort of thing can't be allowed to go on. For your own sake, and for the sake of others"—he paused, then repeated himself deliberately—"for the sake of others it must be stopped—at once."

"I quite agree with you that it must be stopped," said Anstice slowly, "though I hardly see how the matter affects anyone except myself. Of course"—he looked Sir Richard squarely in the face as he spoke—"it is no use denying there is a certain amount of truth in this accusation against me. I wonder if you have the patience to listen to a story—the story of a great mistake made, unfortunately, by me some years ago."

For a moment Sir Richard seemed about to speak; yet no word crossed his lips. Then he said, with a very kindly inflection in his voice:

"Don't trouble to tell me the story, Anstice. I think I know it already."

"You do?" Anstice stared at him. "But who told it to you? Was it—Cheniston?"

"No, no." Sir Richard spoke hurriedly. "Cheniston never mentioned the affair to me. As a matter of fact I heard it, at the time, from his uncle, a contemporary of mine; but I confess I did not, at first, associate you with the man who was brave enough—and unfortunate enough—to carry out that poor girl's wish——"

"On my honour, sir, I could not have done anything else." Anstice's voice was full of pain, and Sir Richard put his hand kindly on the younger man's shoulder.

"Of course you couldn't—no one but a fool could imagine that for a moment! But as I say, at first I did not connect your name with that of the hero of the story. It was only on seeing you and Cheniston together on one or two occasions that I guessed you might, after all, be the man."

"Yes—to my everlasting remorse I am the man," said Anstice rather bitterly. "But since you know the facts of the case, and yet are good enough to welcome me to your house, I gather this wretched letter carried no weight with you, Sir Richard. And if that is so, why not tear it up, and make an end of the thing?"

"Wait a moment, Anstice. As you say, I know the facts of the case and even if I were ignorant of them this contemptible canard"—he flicked the paper angrily—"wouldn't rouse my curiosity to the extent of setting me searching for some crime in your past." He smiled, but the smile cost him an effort. "But you see the mischief may not rest here. It is quite possible other people may have been—victimized—by this morning's post."

"By Jove, I hadn't thought of that." Anstice stood biting his lip and staring thoughtfully ahead of him; and the old man watched the thin, fine-drawn face with a regard which was full of anxiety. "Naturally a story of this sort is not calculated to enhance one's popularity; and one's patients might quite well look askance at a doctor who was reputed to be a murderer!"

He paused; then threw back his head impetuously.

"After all, if they are weak-minded enough to believe an anonymous statement, they aren't worth bothering with. As it is, I've been thinking for some time that I've had enough of general practice. I never intended to go in for it, you know; and if I had a quiet year or two for research——"

He broke off suddenly, for Sir Richard had raised his hand almost entreatingly.

"Anstice, don't speak of giving up your practice here—not at this juncture, anyway. You see this vile story may spread; and to quit Littlefield now would look almost like"—he hesitated—"like cowardice."

For a second Anstice stared at him, a flash of anger on his brow. Then, as though dismayed by the effect of his words, Sir Richard spoke again.

"Besides, there is another aspect of the matter which has evidently not yet struck you. It is very natural for you to look on this letter as a loathsome, but quite unimportant, act of spite, on the part of some secret enemy; and I understand your desire to assume that it does not matter in the least. But"—his eyes sought the younger man's face anxiously—"there is another person in this neighbourhood who might be affected by a fresh flood of anonymous communications. You know to whom I refer?"

Suddenly Anstice saw, with a most unwelcome clarity of vision, what Sir Richard intended to convey; and his eyes grew hard as he replied:

"You mean——"

"I mean that once again that unfortunate girl at Cherry Orchard might be suspected of having recourse to this most degrading, most underhand form of crime. And for her sake the matter must not be allowed to rest here."

"Sir Richard"—Anstice came a step nearer his host, and Sir Richard heard, with satisfaction, the ring of steel in his voice—"you are right. I did not see, at first, how peculiarly fatal this coincidence might be. I mean that should these letters, as you suggest, be circulated through the district, the old scandal would be revived. And though no sane person could ever believe Mrs. Carstairs guilty of such a vile action, I suppose there are a good many lunatics about who would put these atrocious things down to her."

"Well, you know what people are," said Sir Richard deprecatingly, "and naturally a woman who has once been convicted, by whatever unfair means, of the same offence, is liable to be looked on with suspicion. And I shouldn't like"—for a second Sir Richard, who loved Chloe Carstairs as though she had been his daughter, faltered, and cleared his throat rather huskily—"I shouldn't like that poor, pretty creature over yonder to suffer any further indignity."

"Of course not!" Anstice's eyes flashed, and he pulled himself together resolutely. "And if I can help it, she shan't suffer! Just look here, Sir Richard, the first thing to do is to find out if anyone else has been, as you say, victimized."

"Yes." Sir Richard spoke rather dubiously. "And it will be rather hard to find out that, I fear. You see, naturally a decent man wouldn't spread the fact abroad; and we can hardly go about making open inquiries."

"I suppose not." For a second Anstice was nonplussed, then his face cleared. "But after all, if anyone—one of my patients, for instance, has received one of these charming letters, don't you think I shall find it out? You see, although the average 'decent man,' as you call him, holds firmly to the theory that the place for an anonymous communication is the fire, I'm afraid nine out of ten people can't help wondering, even while they burn it, how much truth there was in the accusation!"

"Just so—but even then——"

"Well, something of that rather uncomfortable wonder, not to say suspicion, is pretty sure to show itself in the manner of the man who's read the letter. Seriously, Sir Richard, if anyone beside yourself has received a testimonial to my character" He spoke ironically now—"I'll guarantee to discover the fact in the course of ten minutes' conversation with him!"

"You may be right, Anstice." Sir Richard did not speak with much conviction. "But for all our sakes I wish we could make certain of the facts either way. You see, should this lie be circulated through the district by means of letters or postcards it is inevitable that the old scandal should be raked up. And in that case Mrs. Carstairs will suffer."

A thought struck Anstice suddenly and he gave it utterance forthwith.

"Sir Richard, I suppose you don't remember whether the handwriting in any of those other letters resembled this in any way? It is not likely, so long afterwards, but still——"

Sir Richard uttered an impatient exclamation.

"By Gad, what an old fool I am! I've got one of the original letters locked away in that desk now—one of the half-dozen or so which reached me when the scandal was at its height. I don't know why I kept it—God knows I hated the sight of it—but somehow I could never bring myself to destroy the thing, hoping against hope that it might some day afford a clue to the identity of the writer."

He busied himself with a bunch of keys for a moment, and finally selected one, with which he unlocked a small drawer at the back of his desk. At first his eagerness prevented him finding what he sought, but presently he brought to light another and rather worn sheet of paper, which he handed to Anstice triumphantly.

"Yes, read it, read it!" He had marked Anstice's hesitation. "The affair's been public property too long for any secrecy now. And that, after all, was a fairly innocuous screed."

Thus encouraged, Anstice ran his eye over the sheet of paper, and there read a veiled, but none the less malignant, attack on the character of Mrs. Ogden, the wife of the man who had held the living of Littlefield at the time the letter was written. In his anxiety to compare the handwriting of the two epistles Anstice barely stopped to take in the meaning of what he read; and when, in answer to his request, Sir Richard handed him the second letter he carried them both eagerly to the window and examined them carefully in the stronger light.

"Well?" Sir Richard's tone was full of sympathetic interest.

"One moment—I've got a pocket magnifying glass somewhere." He put the letters down and plunged his hand into various pockets in eager search. "Ah—here it is—and we'll jolly soon see if the game hand has been at work in both."

Watching him as he pored over the two papers Sir Richard told himself that with this man for her champion Chloe Carstairs need not fear further condemnation at the hands of a censorious or jealous world. He knew instinctively that what made Anstice so suddenly keen on discovering the authorship of the letters was not a selfish desire to rid himself of the annoyance such letters might bring upon him, but rather a determination to prove Chloe Carstairs innocent in the first instance by bringing home the guilt for both letters—or series of letters—to the right quarter.

Sir Richard made no mistake in his estimation of Anstice's chivalrous desire to right the wrong which had been done to Mrs. Carstairs. He knew quite well that to Anstice the righting of the wrong appeared in the light of a duty to the woman whom he called his friend; and that no warmer emotion animated him in regard to Chloe Carstairs than that same chivalry.

For Iris' father had not been blind to the significance of the events of the summer. Although Anstice had never betrayed his secret by word or look the other man had all along had a suspicion that Cheniston was not alone in his love for his pretty daughter; and although naturally he was ignorant of the compact entered into by the two younger men he had sometimes wondered, with just the least possible tinge of regret, why Anstice had apparently been content to leave the field to his rival.

Although he admitted to himself that he had absolutely no grounds for believing that Anstice had been in love with Iris he could never rid himself of the notion; and in any case he felt quite certain that Anstice had no warmer feeling for Mrs. Carstairs than a very genuine and chivalrous friendliness.

Watching the younger man as he stood with bent head examining the papers Sir Richard was struck by the change in Anstice's face during the last few months. Always thin, it was now positively haggard, and the black hair which clustered round his brow was touched, here and there, with grey. Yet the effect was not one of age. He could hardly be said to look older than his years; but there was a look of something more painful than a premature ageing would have been—a look of suffering, of bitter experience impatiently borne, of a mental conflict which had drawn lines round the fine lips, and given an air of hopeless weariness to the deep-set eyes.

And Sir Richard, watching, wondered again—this time uneasily—whether the marriage of his beloved little daughter to Bruce Cheniston had proved yet another trouble for this man's already burdened spirit to bear.

Sir Richard had, of course, no idea of the remorse with which Anstice remembered that terrible scene on the eve of Iris' wedding day, when Cheniston and the girl he was to marry on the morrow had come to him for help; and had found him in no fit state to render aid to any human being.

That fact alone, the fact that, as he had said bitterly to Chloe Carstairs, he had failed a child in her need, would have been sufficient to fill Anstice with a very real and deep regret for his own most lamentable failure; but added to that was the other and still more deplorable fact that it had been Iris Wayne who had seen his condition; and although she had uttered no word of reproach he told himself hopelessly that now he must have fallen very low in her estimation. And the idea that Iris must scorn him in her heart, however charitably she might strive to think of him, was a terrible one to the man who had fought so heroically for her sake to overcome his weakness, and had failed only when it had seemed to him that his failure—now—could mean nothing to the girl he loved.

As Sir Richard watched him, rather uneasily, Anstice turned to him suddenly.

"I say, Sir Richard, I'm pretty sure these letters are both written by one hand! Look, these two 'a's are identical, and the capital 'D' is absolutely similar in both."

Oddly thrilled, Sir Richard bent over the papers; and saw that Anstice had spoken the obvious truth.

"By Gad, Anstice, you're right!" For a moment he did not know whether to be disturbed or relieved by the discovery. "It looks uncommonly as though the same hand were at work again; and in that case——"

"In that case the mischief-maker shall be brought to book." A new look of resolution drove away the weary lines from the speaker's face. "I hope with all my heart it is the same person who's at the old game—and I'll find out who it is if it costs me every penny I've got!"

"Quite right, quite the right spirit," said Sir Richard, watching him keenly the while. "It's damnably unfair that a story of that sort should be circulated about you—and the blackguard who's responsible deserves a heavy punishment for the lie."

In an instant the vivacity died out of Anstice's face; and again its hopeless expression struck Sir Richard with a sense of pain.

"Of course the thing is not exactly a lie," he said. "I mean, I did act too hastily, though God knows I did it for the best. But if the whole story is to be raked up again—by Jove, I believe after all it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie!"

"You forget—this is not the first letter which has fallen like a bombshell into Littlefield," Sir Richard reminded him quietly; and Anstice flushed a dull red.

"Of course not ... what a fool I am! Thinking of the past, of that horrible morning, I forgot Mrs. Carstairs. But"—he squared his shoulders aggressively—"I shall not forgot again. This thing is going to be sifted now, and the mystery solved. May I take these letters with me?"

"Certainly." Sir Richard felt Anstice had the better right to the documents. "You will take care of them, of course; and if you follow my advice you will not show them to anyone—yet."

"Quite so." Anstice put the two letters carefully away in his pocket-book. "Now I must go, Sir Richard; but please believe I am grateful for your kindness in this matter."

He shook hands with Sir Richard, and hurried away to his waiting car; and as he drove from the house his lips were firmly set together, and the look in his eyes betokened no good to the wretched creature who had penned this latest communication.

And Sir Richard, watching him from a side window, felt a sharp pang of regret that this man, whom he liked and trusted, had not managed, apparently, to win his daughter's affection.

"Damme if I wouldn't rather have had him for a son-in-law than the other," he said to himself presently. "Cheniston's a decent fellow enough, brainy and a thoroughly steady sort of chap, but there is something about this man that I rather admire. It may be his pluck, or his quiet tenacity of purpose—I'm hanged if I know what it is; but on my soul I'm inclined to wish I'd been called upon to give my little girl into his keeping. As for that affair in India, it's not every man who would have had the pluck to shoot the girl, and precious few men would have lived it down as he has done. I believe I'd have put a bullet through my brain if it had been me," said Sir Richard honestly, "but I can quite realize that it's a long sight finer to see the thing through. And if there's to be fresh trouble over these confounded anonymous scrawls, well, I'll stick to the fellow through thick and thin!"

And with this meritorious resolve Sir Richard went back to his comfortable fire and the paper which he had not, as yet, had the heart to peruse.