On the day following Sir Richard's interview with Anstice the latter received an unexpected call from the Vicar of Littlefield parish.

The two men were on fairly intimate terms. For the clergyman, as a scholar and a gentleman, Anstice had a real respect, though the religious side of Mr. Carey's office, as expressed in his spiritual ministrations, could hardly be expected to appeal to the man who could never rid himself of the feeling that God had deliberately failed him at a critical moment.

Mr. Carey, on his side, had a genuine liking for Anstice, whose skill he admired with the impersonal admiration which a specialist in one profession accords to an expert in another vocation. But mingled with his admiration was an uneasy suspicion that all was not well with the spiritual health of this most indifferent of his parishioners, and he was grieved, with the charity of a large and generous nature, by the gloom, the melancholy, which at times were written only too plainly on the other's face.

The two men were brought into contact now and again by the very nature of their respective callings. Soul and body are after all so closely related that the health of the one depends largely on that of the other; and at times both priest and physician must take their share in the gracious task of healing. And on the occasions when their work brought them together the mutual liking and respect between the two was sensibly strengthened.

So that it did not cause Anstice more than a passing sensation of surprise when on this cold and raw November evening the Reverend Fraser Carey was announced as a visitor.

"Mr. Carey here? Where have you taken him, Alice?"

"Into the drawing-room, sir. The fire's not lighted, but I can put a match to it in a moment."

"No, don't do that." Anstice hated the little-used drawing-room. "Take Mr. Carey into my room, and bring up some coffee directly, will you?"

"Yes, sir." The maid, who in common with the rest of the household regarded Anstice with an admiration not unmixed with awe, withdrew to carry out her instructions; and hastily finishing an important letter, Anstice went in search of his rare visitor.

"Hallo, Carey—jolly good of you to look me up on a beastly night like this." He poked the fire into a brighter blaze, and drew forward a capacious leather chair. "Sit down and light up. We'll have some coffee presently—I know you don't care for anything stronger."

"Thanks, Anstice." Mr. Carey sank down into the big chair and held his transparent-looking hands to the flames. "It is a bad night, as you say, and this fire is uncommonly cosy."

Fraser Carey was a man of middle age who, through constitutional delicacy, looked older than his years. His features, well-cut in themselves, were marred by the excessive thinness and pallor of his face; and his eyes, beneath their heavy lids, told a story of unrestful nights spent in wrestling with some mental or physical pain which forbade the refreshment of sleep. He had never consulted Anstice professionally, though he had called upon his services on behalf of a little niece who sometimes visited him; and Anstice wondered now and then what scruple it was which prevented his friend making use of such skill as he might reasonably claim to possess.

To-night Carey looked even more tired, more fragile than ever; and Anstice refrained from speech until he had poured out two cups of deliciously fragrant coffee and had seen that Carey's pipe was in full blast.

Then: "It is quite a time since you dropped in for a chat," he said cheerfully. "Yet this isn't a specially busy season of the year for you parsons, is it? We are run off our legs with influenza and all the rest of it, thanks to the weather, but you——"

"We parsons are generally busy, you know," returned Carey with a smile. "Human nature being what it is there is no close-time for sin—nor for goodness either, God be thanked," he added hastily.

"I suppose not." Having satisfactorily loaded his pipe Anstice lay back and puffed luxuriously. "In any case I'm glad you've found time to drop in. By the way, there is a woman down in Blue Row about whom I wanted to see you. I think you know the family—the man is a blacksmith, Richards by name."

He outlined the needs of the case, and Carey took a few notes in the little book he carried for the purpose. After that the conversation ranged desultorily over various local matters mildly interesting to both; and then there fell a sudden pause which Anstice at least felt to be significant.

It was broken, abruptly, by the clergyman, who sat upright in his chair, and, laying his empty pipe down on the table, turned to face his host more fully.

"Anstice." His thin, rather musical voice held a new and arresting note. "My visit to you to-night was not of, a purely social nature. I came because—I may have been wrong—because I felt it to be both an obligation and an act of friendship to come here to discuss with you a peculiar situation which has arisen within the last day or two in Littlefield."

Instantly Anstice guessed what was to follow; and he knocked the ashes out of his pipe with a rather impatient gesture which was not lost on the other man.

"If you will listen to me for one moment," said Carey hastily, "you may then refuse to discuss the subject if you wish. But I think it will really be better if you can bring yourself to listen to me first."

Even Anstice's annoyance was not proof against the other man's moderation; and he spoke with creditable mildness.

"I think I know what you want to say, Carey. Is it—this interesting subject—concerned with certain statements which are being made about me—anonymously—in the parish?"

Carey's face lost a little of its uneasiness.

"Yes," he said, "since you appear to be already acquainted with the fact there is no use in denying it. Indeed, I don't wish to do so, seeing that is what I came to say to you."

"You have received such a letter yourself?"

"Yes. I received a letter this morning."

"I see." For a moment Anstice sat in silence, his lips set firmly together; and the other man, watching, was struck, as Sir Richard had been on the previous day, by the look of suffering in his face. "Well, Carey, is it asking you too much to let me know exactly what form the accusation against me took? Or have you the letter with you?"

"No. I burnt the letter immediately," Carey answered. "Naturally such communications are best destroyed—and forgotten—at once. But"—he hesitated—"the fact is I have since discovered that I am not the only person to be addressed by the unknown correspondent."

"Indeed?" Anstice's eyes flashed. "Is it permissible to ask who else has been thus—honoured?"

The clergyman paused a moment before replying, and it was evident a conflict was taking place in his mind. The struggle was, however, soon terminated, and he answered Anstice's question resolutely.

"Yes, it is quite permissible. Indeed, I had already gained the consent of the other—victim"—he smiled deprecatingly—"to tell you, if necessary, what was being said behind your back."

"Well?" Anstice's tone was peremptory, but his friend did not resent it.

"The other anonymous letter—the only other one of which I have any knowledge—was addressed to the wife of your colleague—I don't think he's your rival—Dr. Willows."

"Oh!" Anstice opened his eyes; he had not expected this revelation. "Poor little woman! What a shame to victimize her!"

"Yes—as you know, she's quite a girl, they've only been married three months; and the letter worried her considerably—so much so, in fact, that as Willows is away on a week's holiday she sent for me to advise her in the matter."

"What advice did you give her?"

"Well, in the first flush of indignation she was all for sending the horrid thing on to you—a pretty sure sign that any accusation against you had missed its mark," said Carey with a smile. "However, her heart failed her at the critical moment and she sent for me instead. She was at school with some young cousins of mine and we are on quite friendly terms; so she confided her perplexity to me at once."

"I see." Anstice was thinking hard. "And I suppose you returned her confidence by giving her yours?"

"Yes." Carey looked at him frankly. "I requested her to keep my confidence as I would keep hers—save to you—and I am sure she will do so. But"—he spoke gravely now—"I am afraid, Anstice, there is someone in the neighbourhood who wishes to work you ill."

"By the way"—Anstice was not listening very closely—"you have not yet told me the nature of the accusation. I presume it was the same in both cases?"

"Practically, yes. It was a statement, made very plainly and directly, that you—you——"

He broke off, his thin cheeks flushing; and Anstice smiled rather dryly.

"Don't let it distress you," he said, with an attempt at jocularity. "Suppose I save you the trouble of repeating the contents of the letters. I daresay the writer stated that I once, in order to get myself out of a tight place in India, wantonly sacrificed the woman who was my companion?"

"Yes," said Carey slowly, "that was the substance of both communications. The idea was, I gather, to prevent the recipients having confidence in you by pointing to you as one who would save himself at the expense of a woman. Of course"—he spoke more fluently now—"no one who knew you would dream of attaching any weight whatever to that sort of cruel and senseless lie; and as I told Mrs. Willows, such a baseless slander is better left to die for want of notice. She quite agreed with me," he added hastily, and Anstice's face cleared.

"Thanks, Carey." He held out his hand, and Carey's transparent, fingers clasped it with a strength which would have been surprising to one who did not know the indomitable spirit which dwelt in the wasted frame. "You are a true friend, and your friendship deserves some return. Unfortunately the only return I can make is to tell you the miserable story which is perverted by the anonymous writer into something less creditable than—I hope—you will judge it to be."

He sprang up suddenly and leaned against the mantelpiece, hands in pockets as usual; and in that position, looking down on his friend as he sat in his capacious chair, he outlined once again the happenings of that bygone Indian dawn.

He related the affair shortly—it was not a subject on which he cared to dwell; and the clergyman listened thoughtfully, his sunken eyes fixed on the pale face beneath the clustering black hair with an intentness of regard which would have disturbed anyone less engrossed than the narrator of the sad little story.

When he had finished Anstice moved abruptly.

"Well, that's the truth—and now you see that those statements made about me are the most insidious form of lying—with a good foundation of half-truths. That's what makes it so infernally hard to refute them."

"I see." Carey loaned forward thoughtfully, shielding his face from the flames with his thin hands. "It is a pitiful story, Anstice; and if you will allow me to say so I admire and respect a man who can live down the memory of a tragedy as you have done."

"I have lived it down—yes," said Anstice, rather grimly. "But it's been jolly hard at times not to throw up the sponge. Several people have suggested—discreetly—that suicide is quite justifiable in cases of this sort, but——"

"Suicide is never justifiable." The clergyman's delicate features stiffened. "From the days of Judas Iscariot—the most notorious suicide in the history of the world, I suppose—it has been the refuge of the coward, the ingrate, the weak-minded. People talk of the pluck required to enable a man to take his own life. What pluck is there in deliberately turning one's back on the problems one hasn't the courage, or the patience, to solve? Believe me, suicide—self-murder—is an unthinkable resource to a really brave man."

He stopped; but Anstice made no reply, though a rather cynical smile played about his lips; and presently Carey went on speaking.

"It always seems to me such sheer folly, such egregious lunacy, to precipitate one's self into the unknown, seeing that one can hardly expect the Giver of Life to welcome the soul He has not called. And I have often wondered what depths of misery, of shame, must overwhelm the uninvited soul in what someone has called 'the first five minutes after Death.'"

His voice sank to a whisper on the last words; and for a moment the room was very still. Then Carey leaned forward and laid one hand on the other's arm with a rather deprecating smile.

"Forgive me, Anstice! The subject we were discussing is one on which I find it difficult to hold my peace. But knowing you, I know that suicide is not, would never be, the way out to one of your disposition."

Anstice moved restlessly.

"Odd you should use that expression," he said quickly. "Others have employed it in connection with this miserable story of mine. No, suicide is not the way out—nor is another expedient to which I have had recourse. But"—suddenly his face lost its quietness and grew keen, alert—"this slander has got to be stopped. You see this is not the first time the neighborhood has been infested with this plague."

"You refer to the unhappy circumstances connected with my predecessor's wife?"

"Yes. You know the story, of course?"

"Yes. I am also acquainted—but very slightly—with Mrs. Carstairs."

"Then you know a much-maligned woman," said Anstice. "And it is in order to save her from further unhappiness that I intend to sift this matter to the bottom."

"I am delighted to hear you say so," said Carey earnestly. "And if I can help you in any way my services are yours. First of all, how do you propose starting on the sifting process?"

"I have already made a start," rejoined Anstice. "Through the good offices of Sir Richard Wayne, who has also been pestered with a letter, I have discovered that the writing of those communications and of those earlier ones you mentioned just now is in many respects identical."

Carey sat upright, his face alight with interest.

"Really? You think the writer of both is the same?"

"Yes. Of course until I have studied the two letters in my possession a little more closely I can't be positively certain on the point; but I intend to submit them both to an expert at the first opportunity."

"I can help you there," said Carey quite eagerly. "I mean, if you do not know of a reliable expert I can give you the name of the cleverest man in England."

"Can you?" Anstice's notebook was out in a second. "Thanks very much—I will write to him to-morrow. But in my own mind I have not a shadow of doubt that the same person wrote them both."

"By the way"—Carey spoke slowly—"how many people about here would be likely to know the story you have told me to-night? Out in India, of course, there might be some who would remember such a tragic episode. But it's a far cry from Alostan to Littlefield."

"The only people in the neighbourhood who have heard the true story are, so far as I know, Sir Richard Wayne and"—he hesitated—"and his daughter, who is now Mrs. Cheniston."

"I see." Fraser Carey's eyes had noted the change of tone as Anstice spoke the last name; and his quick humanism was stirred by the pitiful idea which crossed his mind. "Sir Richard's daughter knew the story? And—may we conclude that her husband would naturally share her knowledge?"

"Naturally—yes." He emphasized the word. "You see I omitted to tell you that the girl I—the girl who was with me in the hut was engaged to this very man, Bruce Cheniston, whom Miss Wayne eventually married."

"Was she, indeed?" Carey was really surprised. "What a strange coincidence that you should meet again—as I suppose you met—in Littlefield."

"We met, yes," said Anstice, his eyes growing fierce at the remembrance of their meeting. "But—well, as you will readily see, none of those persons is in the least likely to have anything to do with the letters we are discussing. I daresay Mrs. Carstairs may possibly know the story—if her brother saw fit to hand it on to her. But so far as I know they are the only people who do know it, and naturally we can write all of them off the list of suspects at once."

"Quite so. I wonder"—Carey rose as he spoke—"I wonder if anyone else has received one of those shameful letters? Of course should the matter go no further there is not much real harm done, though of course——"

"Whether there are other letters or not the matter is going to be thoroughly investigated," said Anstice resolutely; and Carey experienced a disturbing and quite unusual pang of regret for his own vanished youth and strength as he heard the ring of determination in the other man's voice, noted the firm set of his lips and the proud and dauntless gesture with which he threw back his head, his black eyes sparkling.

"Well, I shall follow the course of events with deep interest," he said, striving as he spoke to fight down that unworthy sensation of envy of another's superior equipment for the battle of life. "Of course I will keep my own counsel; and in a few days at latest you should know whether your enemy intends to strike again."

"It is very good of you to take an interest in the horrible affair." Anstice was really grateful. "Must you go? You haven't given me much of your company to-night."

"I must go—yes." His smile robbed the words of any discourtesy. "But don't forget to call upon me if you want any help. And for the sake of all concerned, but especially, if I may say so, for the sake of the poor lady at Cherry Orchard, I trust you may be able to clear the matter up for all the world to see."

"It is chiefly for Mrs. Carstairs' sake that I intend to do so," returned Anstice briefly. "Personally I don't care what may be said about me; but I don't mean Mrs. Carstairs to be victimized further. And if it costs me every penny I've got in the world the writer of these letters shall be brought to book!"

And Fraser Carey agreed, mentally, with Sir Richard's estimation of Mrs. Carstairs' new champion. But he went further than Sir Richard, in that he found occasion to wonder whether after all this unexpected and unwelcome repetition of the former anonymous campaign which had convulsed Littlefield might not in the end prove the salvation of the man against whom it was presumably directed.

Unlike Sir Richard, Carey was an observer of men, a student of human nature, and he had not failed to notice the increased alertness which had characterized Anstice this evening as he discussed the situation. The rather bitter, indifferent look which generally clouded his face had lifted, giving way to a brighter, more open expression; and the half melancholy cynicism which Carey had deplored had vanished before the eager determination to see an innocent and wronged woman righted in the eyes of the world.

"The man has brooded so long over what he considers to be an injustice of God that he has lost, temporarily, his sense of proportion," said Carey to himself as he trudged, rather wearily, homeward. "But if he devotes himself, as he seems anxious to do, to the service of a woman who has suffered an equal injustice, though at the hands of man this time, possibly he will forgot his own bitterness in the contemplation of her marred life. And God, who is the God of Justice, whatever scoffers may say, will bring the truth to light in His own good time. So the two tragedies may react on one another; for the lives of all of us are bound together by mysterious and undreamed-of links; and in the effort to free the soul of a woman from its bondage his own soul may well find its freedom."

But Fraser Carey was a mystic; and since the materialistic world looks with suspicion on mysticism, it is probable that even Anstice, who knew and respected him, would have heard his last speech with a passing wonder that a man should hold so unpractical and untenable a view of existence as the words would seem to imply.