The Rev. Aubrey Jerningham quivered from head to heel. He drew himself up and looked at Soapy. The finger had given him considerable physical pain, but it was the spiritual anguish that hurt the more. “I do, indeed, know how it is,” he said. “Man of the world,” said Soapy, relieved. “I will wish you good evening, Mr. Shotter,” said the Rev. Aubrey. The front door banged. Dolly appeared on the landing. “Why don’t you come up?” she said. “Because I’m going to lie down,” said Soapy, breathing heavily. “What do you mean?” “I want a rest. I need a rest, and I’m going to have it.” Dolly descended to the hall. “Why, you’re looking all in, precious!” “‘All in’ is right. If I don’t ease off for a coupla minutes, you’ll have to send for an ambulance.” “Well, I don’t know as I won’t take a spell myself. It’s kinda dusty work, hunting around. I’ll go take a breath of air outside at the back.... Was that somebody else calling just now?” “Yes, it was.” “Gee! These people round these parts don’t seem to have any homes of their own, do they? Well, I’ll be back in a moment, honey. There’s a sort of greenhouse place by the back door. Quite likely old Finglass may have buried the stuff there.” § 3 The Rev. Aubrey Jerningham crossed the little strip of gravel that served both Mon Repos and San Rafael as a drive and mounted the steps to Mr. Wrenn’s front door. He was still quivering. “Mr. Wrenn?” he asked of the well-dressed young man who answered the ring. Mr. Braddock shook his head. This was the second time in the last five minutes that he had been taken for the owner of San Rafael; for while the vicar had worked down Burberry Road from the top, the policeman had started at the bottom and worked up. “Sorry,” he said, “Mr. Wrenn’s out.” “I will come in and wait,” said the Rev. Aubrey. “Absolutely,” said Mr. Braddock. He led the way to the drawing-room, feeling something of the embarrassment, though in a slighter degree, which this holy man had inspired in Soapy Molloy. He did not know much about vicars, and rather wondered how he was to keep the conversation going. “Offer you a cup of tea?” “No, thank you.” “I’m afraid,” said Mr. Braddock apologetically, “I don’t know where they keep the whisky.” “I never touch spirits.” Conversation languished. Willoughby Braddock began to find his companion a little damping. Not matey. Seemed to be brooding on something, or Mr. Braddock was very much mistaken. “You’re a clergyman, aren’t you, and all that?” he said, after a pause of some moments. “I am. My name is the Rev. Aubrey Jerningham. I have just taken up my duties as vicar of this parish.” “Ah? Jolly spot.” “Where every prospect pleases,” said the Rev. Aubrey, “and only man is vile.” Silence fell once more. Mr. Braddock searched in his mind for genial chatter, and found that he was rather short on clerical small talk.