Sophy nodded her approval. "Dorinda's a nice girl and a good girl, and a very pretty girl," she said, in her deep-toned voice, "but she is as weak as any man in this village. As weak as you are, Squire, as the vicar, as my father, and you know what he is." She winced again, then turned aggressively on Kit. "But I can't stay here all day, as the meeting at Elbowsham is waiting. Five miles, Kit; you must do it in five minutes." "What about the police?" asked Carrington. "I despise the police," cried Miss Tollart, as she was borne away hurriedly by her lover to prevent further trouble. "They know me." Carrington looked leisurely after the machine until it vanished and Sophy's trumpet tones of defiance died away. "What an uncomfortable young woman," he observed, turning toward his friend. "Oh, Sophy's a good sort," said Hendle soberly. "She's had heaps of trouble." "It doesn't seem to have knocked much sense into her, anyway. Trouble. Bother, I see. Her father, I expect?" The Squire looked astonished. "Yes. But how you guessed----" "I saw her wince when you and she mentioned Dr. Tollart," explained the barrister. They crossed the green, passing an ancient cross of worn stone, which stood in the center of a vast expanse of grass burnt brown with the long-enduring heat. Round the square were various cottages with white-washed walls and thatched roofs, each standing in its own tiny garden brilliant with flowers. _The Hendle Inn_, with the arms of the family swinging from a signpost, was the largest building in sight, and presented an attractive sight to an artist, since it dated from Tudor times, and its upper story overhung the lower. With its red-tiled roof and dark oaken beams deeply embedded in its flint and stone walls it caught the eye of Carrington straightway. He had seen it before, but its quaint beauty lured him again to contemplation. "That's a delightful old inn," he said, looking backward as they passed out of the square. "Quite the place for an adventure." "There are no adventures in Barship," replied the Squire heavily. "We are very dull people hereabouts. Leigh is our bright and shining light, as he goes in for old manuscripts and ancient buildings and queer customs and----" "In a word, Leigh is an archæologist," interrupted Carrington, who found Rupert somewhat prolix. "And who is Leigh?" "If we had gone to church yesterday, you would have seen him in the pulpit, Carrington. He is the vicar, and, if you don't mind being blamed for nonattendance, we are going to look him up now." "Oh, I don't mind in the least," said the barrister briskly. "If he talks religion, I can talk science. Argument is always amusing with a fanatic." "I don't think Leigh is a fanatic. He is fonder of his hobby than of his profession. But he's all right as a parson, although he doesn't visit his parishioners as often as I could wish. Yonder's the church where all my people are buried. Picturesque?"