“That is very unfortunate,” he said. “I had promised myself an uninterrupted afternoon with Fra Hickler. I’ve just had a facsimile edition sent to me from Leipzig. Hickler, you remember, Dick, was a cloistered monk in the days of Elizabeth, our abbey being one of the few that was not interfered with by Henry the Eighth or by Elizabeth either; partly, I think, because our particular order of monks were antagonistic to the Jesuits.…” Dick listened patiently, and when his brother had exhausted the history of the Black Fathers of Chelfordbury-- “You’ll have to be civil and come to tea, and after that I’ve no doubt Leslie will not object to your going back to Fra Hickler, who was a German, I presume?” “He was a German,” said Harry gravely. “And the circumstances which brought him to Chelfordbury were rather peculiar.” “The best German I ever read about”--it was Mr. Puttler who interrupted--“was Robinson Crusoe.” Dick thought it was a crude jest on the part of his guest, but, if it was so, Mr. Puttler was unconscious of his humour. Harry stared at the “accountant.” He took such statements as these very seriously indeed. “I am not well acquainted with Robinson Crusoe,” he said, “but surely you are wrong in saying that he was a German? I have always regarded such characters as typically English.” “He was a German,” said Mr. Puttler firmly, “though few people are aware of the fact. If you look at the first page of the story you’ll see these words: ‘My father was a merchant of Bremen,’ and Bremen’s in Germany, or I’m a Dutchman. And if his father was a German, he was a German, because there was no such thing as naturalization in those days.” Having dropped his literary thunderbolt, Puttler was prepared to take up the subject which Dick had interrupted by his question. “The trouble with church music, Mr. Alford, is that it’s a little too sugary. It appeals to the senses. I’ve had many an argument with my brother churchwardens----” “Are you a churchwarden?” asked Dick, in surprise. Again the gleam of laughter in the man’s deep-set eyes. “It’s hard to believe,” he said modestly, “but I am.” Soon after this, Harry left the table, and was gone five minutes when he returned with a fat volume under his arm. “You’re right, Mr.----” “Puttler,” suggested Dick. “You’re right about Robinson Crusoe. What an extraordinary fact, to think that one has lived all one’s life under such a mistaken impression!” This evidence of literary skill on the part of the visitor brought a remarkable change in Harry’s attitude. Before, Puttler might have had no existence. He was one with the milkman, the grocer, and the village postman.