After dinner, Wingrave went out alone. Aynesworth followed him about an hour later, when his work was done, and made his way towards the Vicarage. It was barely nine o’clock, but the little house seemed already to be in darkness. He rang twice before anybody answered him. Then he heard slow, shuffling footsteps within, and a tall, gaunt man, in clerical attire, and carrying a small lamp, opened the door. Aynesworth made the usual apologies and was ushered into a bare, gloomy-looking apartment which, from the fact of its containing a writing table and a few books, he imagined must be the study. His host never asked him to sit down. He was a long, unkempt-looking man with a cold, forbidding face, and his manner was the reverse of cordial. “I have called to see you,” Aynesworth explained, “with reference to one of your parishioners--the daughter of your late organist.” “Indeed!” the clergyman remarked solemnly. “I saw her today for the first time and have only just heard her story,” Aynesworth continued. “It seems to be a very sad one.” His listener inclined his head. “I am, unfortunately, a poor man,” Aynesworth continued, “but I have some friends who are well off, and I could lay my hands upon a little ready money. I should like to discuss the matter with you and see if we cannot arrange something to give her a start in life.” The clergyman cleared his throat. “It is quite unnecessary,” he answered. “A connection of her father’s has come forward at the last moment, who is able to do all that is required for her. Her future is provided for.” Aynesworth was a little taken aback. “I am very glad to hear it,” he declared. “I understood that she had neither friends nor relations.” “You were misinformed,” the other answered. “She has both.” “May I ask who it is who has turned up so unexpectedly?” Aynesworth inquired. “I have taken a great fancy to the child.” The clergyman edged a little towards the door, and the coldness of his manner was unmistakable. “I do not wish to seem discourteous,” he said, “but I cannot recognize that you have any right to ask me these questions. You may accept my word that the child is to be fittingly provided for.” Aynesworth felt the color rising in his cheeks. “I trust,” he said, “that you do not find my interest in her unwarrantable. My visit to you is simply a matter of charity. If my aid is unneeded, so much the better. All the same, I should like to know where she is going and who her friends are.” “I do not find myself at liberty to afford you any information,” was the curt reply. Thereupon there was nothing left for Aynesworth to do but to put on his hat and walk out, which he did. Wingrave met him in the hall on his return. “Where have you been?” he asked a little sharply. “On a private errand,” Aynesworth answered, irritated by his words and look. “You are my secretary,” Wingrave said coldly. “I do not pay you to go about executing private errands.”