Mrs. Craver suggested that he should call on the baronet and renew his acquaintance, but this Edwin refused to do. He said that if Wyke wished to improve the acquaintance he could call at the Rectory, and as the recluse showed no disposition to do this, it would be best to leave him alone. The Rector agreed with his son, and Mrs. Craver therefore found herself in the minority. All the same, she remained intensely curious, and frequently wondered what mystery lay behind the whole business. She even questioned, in a delicate way, Hall the postman and Jervis the policeman, but was unable to learn anything from either. Hall simply said that he delivered very few letters, which were received by Mrs. Vence--whom he described as an old hag, while Jervis declared that he saw nothing and knew nothing and heard nothing likely to say why the tenant of Maranatha lived so hermit-like. It was quite painful for brisk little Mrs. Craver to learn that she could discover nothing--she knew the history and daily doings of every soul in Hedgerton. "I'm sure, George." she said plaintively, to the Rector, "one-half the world does not know how the other half lives." "Then I'm sure it isn't your fault or Mrs. Mellin's or Miss Pyne's either," retorted her husband, whereat she was offended, and wondered more than ever if she would discover the truth. To inflame her curiosity still more an event occurred at the end of four weeks which startled her and startled everyone with its far-reaching consequences. Sir Hector had been leading his secluded life for quite a month when the event happened. It began in quite a commonplace way with the delivery of a letter by Hall at Maranatha. About seven o'clock on a foggy November evening Hall was travelling along the esplanade on his red-painted Government bicycle when he alighted to examine his bag. He knew that he had delivered all letters save one, and searched his bag to find the last missive. By the light of the lamp the postman looked at the address, and saw that it was directed to Sir Hector Wyke at Maranatha. With a grunt of satisfaction that his duties for the day would soon be over, Hall was about to mount his machine again when Jervis appeared. The bulky form of the constable loomed portentously through the mists, and Hall guessed who he was. "Jervis," said the postman, pausing for a moment. "Hall," answered the officer, as if delivering a countersign, and flashed his bull's-eye on the weather-beaten face of the first speaker, "a shocking night, ain't it? Rain and fog, and bitter cold." "Why not? 'Tain't June roses as you'll smell in November, Jervis." "No, worse luck, and night dooty ain't no catch at this time of the year. Now, I'll be bound, Hall, as you're nearly finished, and can get home to your warm bed sharp." "And to tripe and onions, as my old woman does do a turn, Jervis," said Hall, licking his lips. "I've only got this one letter to deliver to Sir Hector Wyke, as folks is talking about so."