CHAPTER XXVII — THE STAMP

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      The rector hardly slept that night, for his heart was heavy and his brain over-stimulated. Whenever he dozed, it was only to experience the horrors of nightmare, when he imagined he was in conflict with an invisible foe.

      He had grown to regard this dream as symbolic of his struggle with the anonymous letter-writer, although he knew it was but the reflection of his own thoughts.

      "Am I never going to lick—You?" he muttered, as he scraped the lather from a jaded face.

      When he walked down the shallow stairs, covered with worn Brussels, the hall was flooded with light streaming in through the open garden door. Charles was chasing a ball on the lawn. In the kitchen, the cook was boiling eggs to the gramophone record of "The sun has got his hat on."

      It was all typical of a homely and cheerful life which the Rector had grown to love. Still oppressed by the threat of leaving it, he found it difficult to summon up his usual smile when he met the postman at the front door.

      But it was good news that he carried into the dining-room, with his letters. Fate had rejected his sacrifice, and had regarded it as a 'Gentleman's Offer', for immediate settlement.

      The Rector opened a bulky letter, addressed in a spidery handwriting, and drew out a printed envelope, which was folded inside.

      "I've got it," he shouted joyously, as he threw it across to Ignatius, while he read the covering letter.

      It was from a Mrs. Pomfret—an elderly lady of piety and pedigree. She explained that she had just received an anonymous letter, containing so foul and baseless an accusation that no Power on Earth could induce her to show it to anyone.

      'I feel degraded by being even a recipient of such filth,' she wrote. 'But I regard you as a Roman Catholic regards the Confessional. I received the letter late on Saturday night, and as we have no kitchen fire during the summer, I immediately locked it away, until I could conveniently burn it. The next morning, after I listened to your wonderful sermon, I had a hard battle with my conscience, and, I am thankful to say, it prevailed. I could never forgive myself if our dear Rector had been driven from us by my silence. But no one will ever know the cost to my own feelings.'

      The Rector looked up to see Ignatius holding the envelope in the jet of steam from the spirit kettle.

      "I want to have a look at the stamp," he explained. "It's a long shot, but it may be marked."

      "I wouldn't disturb any child at its play," remarked the Rector. "I only want to impress on you the need for absolute secrecy over this letter. Mrs. Pomfret has made a real sacrifice, and I would rather cut off my right hand than cause her pain."

      "I don't mind your first insult, but I resent your second," snapped Ignatius, as he peeled off the stamp, and pressed it against the window-pane.

      Then he gave a thin high cry.

      "It is marked. Can't you see a pin-prick of light in one corner?"

      "But I understood none of the marked stamps were sold," said the Rector.

      "One book was sold, to Lady d'Arcy. She was No. 3 on our list. And this stamp is pricked in No. 3 position."

      The Rector pressed his eyes in bewilderment.

      "But surely you don't accuse Lady d'Arcy of writing an abominable letter to Mrs. Pomfret?"

      "I do not. She isn't capable of two consecutive thoughts."

      "Then who do you suspect?"

      As Ignatius remained silent, the Rector stared at him, and then averted his eyes.

      "You mean—Joan Brook?" he asked dully.

      "It can be no one else," agreed Ignatius, sitting down again, and beginning to butter toast. "She's not the sort of secretary who spends her spare time up in her own room, scribbling letters. No, our Joan is a rambler-rose. She wanders here, there, and everywhere. So she's not likely to buy stamps for her own use. She's the kind who would nip one, when wanted, from Lady d'Arcy's book."

      The Rector began to pace the room.

      "Surely," he said distractedly, "you cannot think that Joan has been writing these letters? It's unthinkable that she hounded the Scudamores to their death. She couldn't."

      "She could. But I don't say she has. Sit down and finish your breakfast."

      The Rector sat down and mechanically crammed his pipe, while Ignatius went on talking.

      "I have to consider possibilities. Miss Brook is one. She is a girl of strong character, with unusual determination and a love of excitement. Depend on it, she knows her own attraction, and thinks she's entitled to a better deal from Life than she's got. So she may break out, like this, in a general attack on fortunate people, who have what's been denied to her. The very danger of it would appeal to her, for she's no coward."

      He looked at the Rector in a meaning manner as he added, "Remember, she's leading an unnatural life."

      "She's not," declared the Rector indignantly. "She is self-supporting and has an excellent post. There are hundreds of girls in the same position who are leading useful, happy lives."

      "True. But Miss Brook has just that tincture of the unknown quantity which differentiates her from the herd. She is wasting her life dry-nursing a woman with mental palsy...She ought to be married."

      Glancing sideways, like a malicious elf, he grinned at the Rector.

      "Lucky man," he said. "You won't have to leave the village now."

      "No," agreed the Rector. "But—after this—it doesn't matter much...You told me you wanted a specimen of printing. You've got it...Where do we stand now?"

      "We don't stand. We balance. I must have positive proof before I make any charge. This stamp might have been given to some other person, who chanced to borrow one. I should like to get another envelope, for purposes of comparison."

      The Rector drew a deep breath at the reprieve.

      "Meantime, you leave Joan under a cloud," he said.

      "No, she is assumed innocent, until she is proved guilty. You've had so quick a response to your appeal, that we may expect some more luck. Mrs. Pomfret can't possess the only sensitive conscience."