“It has just this to do with it, Mr. Clode,” the lawyer answered drily, a twinkle in his eyes—“that this address is written on the reverse side of the very piece of paper which is missing from Mr. Lindo’s letter—the important letter I have described. And I wish to ask you, and I think it will be to your interest to give as clear an answer to the question as possible, how you came into possession of this scrap of paper.” The curate glared at his questioner. “I do not understand you,” he stammered. And he held out his hand for the paper. “I think you will when you look at both sides of the sheet,” replied the lawyer, handing it to him. “On one side there is the address you wrote. On the other are the last sentence and signature of a letter from Messrs. Gearns & Baker to Mr. Lindo. The question is a very simple one. How did you get possession of this piece of paper?” Clode was silent—silent, though he knew that the archdeacon was looking at him, and that a single hearty spontaneous denial might avert suspicion. He stood holding the paper in his hand, and gazing stupidly at the damning words, utterly unable to comprehend for the moment how they came to be there. Little by little, however, as the benumbing effects of the surprise wore off, his thoughts went back to the evening when the address was written, and he remembered how the rector had come in and surprised him, and how he had huddled away the letters. In his disorder, no doubt, he had left one lying among his own papers, and made the fatal mistake of tearing from it the scrap on which he had written the address. He saw it all as he stood there, still gazing at the piece of paper, while his rugged face grew darkly red and then again a miserable sallow, and the perspiration sprang out upon his forehead. He felt that the archdeacon’s eyes were upon him, that the archdeacon was waiting for him to speak. He saw the mistake he had made, but his brain, usually so ready, failed to supply him with the explanation he required. “You understand?” Mr. Bonamy said slowly. “The question is, how this letter came to be in your room that evening, Mr. Clode. That is the question.” “I cannot say,” he answered huskily. He was so shaken by the unexpected nature of the attack, and by the strange and ominous way in which the evidence against him had arisen, that he had not the courage to look up and face his accuser. “I think—nay, I am sure, indeed—that the rector must have given me the paper,” he explained, after an awkward pause. “He is positive he did not,” Mr. Bonamy answered. Then Clode recovered himself and looked up. After all, it was only his word against another’s. “Possibly he is,” he said, “and yet he may be mistaken. I cannot otherwise see how the paper could have come into my hands. You do not really mean,” he continued with a smile, which was almost easy, “to charge me with stealing the letter, I suppose?”