He felt somewhat cheered after he had despatched the letter. And as comfortings often come in pairs, he was further cheered by seeing in an evening paper which he bought from a stand near the pillar-box, a general article he had sent up two or three days before. It was an encouraging beginning. At any rate, London streets were more stimulating to his intellectual powers than the dull, deadening life of the African farm. He made many good resolutions during these first days in London. He would win back his lost scholarship, begin to form a humble library. On his way home he bought out of a fourpenny box an old copy of Plato’s “Republic.” He sat up half the night reading it. To his surprise and disappointment, instead of a letter coming from Yvonne, his own was returned through the Dead Letter Office. “Left Fulminster two years ago--present address unknown.” He was puzzled. At the Museum he consulted the Clergy List for the year. According to it, Canon Chisely was still Rector of Fulminster. What had happened to Yvonne? “It must be some silly mistake,” he said to himself. He wrote again; but with the same result. He thought of writing to Everard, but reflected that he too must be ignorant of Yvonne’s address; also that in any case, perhaps, he would disregard his letter. There was some mystery. Both his affection for Yvonne and the novelty of a curiosity outside himself spurred his interest. A day or two afterwards, he noticed on a hoarding an advertisement of cheap excursion trains to the great provincial town next to Fulminster. The journey would be very inexpensive. Why should he not go down and pick up what information he could? The idea of the little excitement pleased him. He started the next morning at a very early hour, and arrived at Fulminster about noon. The place was well known to him. He had often visited his cousin in days gone by. Many bitter-sweet associations crowded upon him as he walked up from the station through the streets. He went on, without any definite idea as to his course of action. Almost mechanically he bent his steps toward the old abbey, whose spire rose above the housetops, at the end of the High Street. Soon the great mass towered above him. He stood for a while looking upwards at the wealth of tracery, and crocket, and pinnacle, feeling its beauty, and then wandered idly round. At last his eye fell upon a notice on the board by the vestry door. It was signed “J. Abdy, Rector”; other notices bore the same signature. This was a new surprise. Wondering what had occurred, he left the Abbey Close and proceeded round the familiar path to the front door of the Rectory. He would take the bull by the horns. “Is the Rector in?” he asked the servant who opened to him. “Yes, sir.” “Could I see him for a moment?” “What name, sir?” “Chisely,” said Joyce, instinctively, then he coloured. It was odd that he should have been taken off his guard.