“So they may, miss, but you may depend upon me and Clegg.” The clerk’s wife was now escorting her out of the church. “I see you know all about that bit of paper at the end of the book there, which I understand there’s property dependin’ on it. Now you’ll maybe ’ardly believe it, miss, but neither me nor Clegg have ever mentioned that slip to a livin’ soul, least of all to the new Vicar, as ain’t ashamed to walk about the parish in petticoats, and wearin’ a Roman mitre on his ’ead.” The description was startling, but Maimie recognised the object of it when she was walking past the vicarage, having rid herself of Mrs Clegg by means of a gratuity. The green door in the high wall opened, and a tall thin man came out, wearing a cassock and a curious head-dress that seemed a cross between a Tam-o’-Shanter and a mortar-board. A youthful voice from the other side of the narrow street inquired shrilly, “Where _did_ you get that ’at?” and a small boy scampered away as fast as his legs would carry him, while the new Vicar, with the air of a martyr, walked rapidly towards the church. As for Maimie, she stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth to restrain a peal of hysterical laughter, and turned her steps hastily towards the station. Her experiences of the morning seemed altogether too absurd and incongruous for real life, and in spite of the strained excitement with which she had set forth on her quest, the clergyman’s martyrlike aspect put the finishing touch to her helpless mirth. When she was safely in the train, and had allowed herself the luxury of a long laugh over this anti-climax to her adventure, she became suddenly serious, however.