“Just what I say. I object,” repeated the lawyer firmly. This time Clode said nothing, but his eyes flashed, and he drew himself up, his face dark with passion. “Shall I state my objection now?” Mr. Bonamy continued, with the utmost gravity. “It is not quite formal, but—very well, I will do so. I have rather a curious story to tell, and I must go back a short time. When Mr. Lindo’s honesty in accepting the living was called in question about a month ago, he referred to the letters in which Lord Dynmore’s agents conveyed the offer to him. He had those letters by him. Naturally, he had preserved them with care, and he began to regard them in the light of valuable evidence on his behalf, since they showed the facts brought to his knowledge when he accepted the living. I have said that he had preserved them with care; and, indeed, he is prepared to say to-day, that from the time of his arrival here until now, they have never, with his knowledge or consent, passed out of his possession.” The lawyer’s rasping voice ceased for a moment. Stephen Clode’s face was a shade paler, but away from the gas-jets this could not be distinguished. He was arming himself to meet whatever shock was to come, while below this voluntary action of the brain his mind ran in an undercurrent of fierce, passionate anger against himself—anger that he had ever meddled with those fatal letters. Oh, the folly, the uselessness, the danger of that act, as he saw them now! “Nevertheless,” Mr. Bonamy resumed in the same even, pitiless tone, “when Mr. Lindo referred to these letters—which he kept, I should add, in a locked cupboard in his library—he found that the first in date, and the most important of them all, had been mutilated.” The curate’s brow cleared. “What on earth,” he broke out, “has this to do with me, Mr. Bonamy?” And he laughed—a laugh of relief and triumph. The lawyer’s last words had lifted a weight from his heart. They had found a mare’s nest after all. “Quite so!” the archdeacon chimed in with good-natured fussiness. “What has all this to do with the matter in hand, or with Mr. Clode, Mr. Bonamy? I fail to see.” “In a moment I will show you,” the lawyer answered. Then he paused, and, taking a letter-case form his pocket, leisurely extracted from it a small piece of paper. “I will first ask Mr. Clode,” he continued, “to tell us if he supplied Mr. Lindo with the names of a firm of Birmingham solicitors.” “Certainly I did,” replied the curate haughtily. “And you gave him their address, I think?” “I did.” “Perhaps you can tell me, then, whether that is the address you wrote for him,” continued the lawyer smoothly, as he held out the paper for the curate’s inspection. “It is,” Clode answered at once. “I wrote it for Mr. Lindo, in my own room, and gave it him there. But I fail to see what all this has to do with the point you have raised,” he continued with considerable heat.