But, though he smiled, he became silent again. He was reflecting, with well-hidden bitterness, that Lindo would not only override him in the parish, but would be his rival in the particular inner clique which he affected—perhaps his rival with Laura. The thought awoke the worst nature of the man. Up to this time, though he had not been true, though he had kept back at Claversham details of his past history which a frank man would have avowed, though in the process of assimilating himself to his new surroundings he had been over-pliant, he had not been guilty of any baseness which had seemed to him a baseness, which had outraged his own conscience. But, as he reflected on the wrong which this young stranger was threatening to do him, he felt himself capable of much. “Mrs. Hammond,” he said suddenly, “may I ask if you have destroyed Lord Dynmore’s letter which you showed me last week?” “Destroyed Lord Dynmore’s letter!” Laura answered, speaking for her mother in a tone of comic surprise. “Do you think, sir, that we get peers’ autographs every day of the week?” “No,” Mrs. Hammond said, waving aside her daughter’s flippancy and speaking with some stateliness. “It is not destroyed, though such things are not so rare with us as Laura pretends. But why do you ask?” “Because the rector was not sure when Lord Dynmore meant to return to England,” Clode explained readily. “And I thought he mentioned the date in his letter to you, Mrs. Hammond.” “I do not think so,” said Mrs. Hammond. “Might I look?” “Of course,” was the answer. “Will you find it, Laura? I think it is under the malachite weight in the other room.” It was, sitting there in solitary majesty. Laura opened it, and took the liberty of glancing through it first. Then she gave it to him. “There, you unbelieving man,” she said, “you can look. But he does not say a word about his return.” The curate read rapidly until he came to one sentence, and on this his eye dwelt a moment. “I hear with regret,” it ran, “that poor Williams is not long for this world. When he goes I shall send you an old friend of mine. I trust he will become an old friend of yours also.” Clode barely glanced at the rest of the letter, but, as he handed it back, he informed himself that it was dated in America two days before Mr. Williams’s death. “No,” he admitted, “I was wrong. I thought he had said when he would return.” “And you are satisfied?” said Laura. “Perfectly,” he answered. “Perfectly!” with a little unnecessary emphasis.