Francis swallowed both his ideas and his goodness without difficulty, examined the ritual of the services with interest and some enthusiasm, corrected it in one or two points, and as he took nearly all the work of the parish off the vicar's shoulders, there could not possibly be any friction between them. The vicar congratulated himself on having found a jewel of curates, and his wife began to dream dreams of vast preferment obtained through the Folyat influence--a rural deanery, a stall, a bishopric, and--why not?--Canterbury or York. Francis, on the other hand, gave no thought to the future and drifted drowsily, most keenly enjoying himself in the summer days when he could take a boat, a book, an old long-shoreman and fishing tackle, and go down to the sand-banks at the mouth of the estuary and bathe and fish and lie in the sun with his clay pipe between his teeth, and his golden beard glistening and his blue eyes shining as he thought that the world was very good and the sea almost the best of good things in it. It was not his way to compare his lot with others, and it had never occurred to him, except in his official capacity, to criticise life. In that capacity he criticised not so much life as a traditional concept of it. He was rudely awakened from this drowsy golden age by an event which kept Potsham talking for a generation and a half. One night when he had been dining at Crabtrees, the house of Miss Martha Brett's aunt, where there had been music and cribbage and a walk down the garden to look at the moonlight on the sea, he returned to his rooms to find them occupied by a man with a white face and quivering lips and legs that would not be still. He was a poor man and a sort of seafaring man, and he looked up and in a rustling voice he said: "Parson, what sort of man would that man be. . . ?" Then he stopped and rattled in his throat, and Francis felt a curious nausea as he looked at the man and saw how frightened he was. "What sort of man?" asked Francis, feeling that the question was almost as meaningless as the man's words. "She's got a cut in her throat and a lot of blood. . . . I say." "I say," echoed Francis. "We'd better go," said the man. "Yes," said Francis. "Does anybody know?" "No," replied the man, "I been looking at her three hours." With that he seemed to gain control of himself, and his legs did not shake any more and his lips set in a thin straight line. He stood up and went to the door and Francis followed him. Very cunningly the man looked at him and said: "You do know how a man could do it?" "No," said Francis, "unless----"