Copplestone got a view of his fellow-visitor that afternoon in the hall of the inn, and agreed with the landlady that he showed no evident signs of delicacy of health. He was a good type of the conventional curate, with a rather pale, good-humoured face set between his round collar and wide brimmed hat, and he glanced at Copplestone with friendly curiosity and something of a question in his eyes. And Copplestone, out of good neighbourliness, stopped and spoke to him. "Mrs. Wooler tells me you're come here to pick up," he remarked. "Pretty strong air round this quarter of the globe!" "Oh, that's all right!" said the new arrival. "The air of Scarhaven will do me good--it's full of just what I want." He gave Copplestone another look and then glanced at the letters which he held in his hand. "Are you going to the post-office?" he asked. "May I come?--I want to go there, too." The two young men walked out of the inn, and Copplestone led the way down the road towards the northern quay. And once they were well out of earshot of the "Admiral's Arms," and the two or three men who lounged near the wall in front of it, the curate turned to his companion with a sly look. "Of course you're Mr. Copplestone?" he remarked. "You can't be anybody else--besides, I heard the landlady call you so." "Yes," replied Copplestone, distinctly puzzled by the other's manner. "What then?" The curate laughed quietly, and putting his fingers inside his heavy overcoat, produced a card which he handed over. "My credentials!" he said. Copplestone glanced at the card and read "Sir Cresswell Oliver," He turned wonderingly to his companion, who laughed again. "Sir Cresswell told me to give you that as soon as I conveniently could," he said. "The fact is, I'm not a clergyman at all--not I! I'm a private detective, sent down here by him and Petherton. See?" Copplestone stared for a moment at the wide-brimmed hat, the round collar, the eminently clerical countenance. Then he burst into laughter. "I congratulate you on your make-up, anyway!" he exclaimed. "Capital!" "Oh, I've been on the stage in my time," responded the private detective. "I'm a good hand at fitting myself to various parts; besides I've played the conventional curate a score of times. Yes, I don't think anybody would see through me, and I'm very particular to avoid the clergy." "And you left the stage--for this?" asked Copplestone. "Why, now?" "Pays better--heaps better," replied the other calmly. "Also, it's more exciting--there's much more variety in it. Well, now you know who I am--my name, by-the-bye is Gilling, though I'm not the Reverend Gilling, as Mrs. Wooler will call me. And so--as I've made things plain--how's this matter going so far?" Copplestone shook his head. "My orders," he said, with a significant look, "are--to say nothing to any one." "Except to me," responded Gilling. "Sir Cresswell Oliver's card is my passport. You can tell me anything."