CHAPTER XXVIII — COMPANY

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      Ignatius did not see the Rector again until the next morning, when he appeared at breakfast still sodden with sleep.

      "When did you get home?" asked Ignatius curiously.

      "Very late," was the reply. "Thanks for the car. I went night-riding."

      "I thought you were going to the Court?"

      "I did."

      "Then—am I to congratulate you?"

      The Rector glared at the question.

      "Aren't you going rather too far?" he asked.

      "Probably. I don't ask for confidence—only marmalade...Thanks...Please yourself."

      The Rector smiled drearily.

      "I suppose," he said, "you're being logical. I said I had faith in Joan, so it naturally followed that I had to prove it, in the only way. But—it's deadlock."

      Ignatius was not often surprised, but the Rector had secured his interest. As he considered Joan's longing for security, and her strong feeling for the Rector, he could not credit the news that she had refused his offer of marriage.

      "These wretched letters are stopping the way," declared the Rector. "I don't wish to discuss my private affairs, even with you, but one thing hangs on another. I asked Joan to marry me, last night, and I thought she was going to accept me. And then, quite suddenly, she changed her mind."

      "How?" asked Ignatius eagerly.

      "She said that, until it was discovered who was writing the letters, everyone in the village was under a cloud, and that she, apparently, was under special suspicion. It was no use my swearing I believed in her innocence—it had to be proved. She said that, after we were married, if anything went wrong I might remember, and doubt her."

      Ignatius' peaked face was kindled to enthusiasm.

      "What a girl," he declared. "She means to have the whole of you, not a part. She's out to get you, hook, line, and sinker."

      "If she is, she shows it in a curious way."

      "No, Tigger, she's right. That black day is bound to come, when the devil would make you distrust her. Well, to reward her for her courage and acquisitive instinct, I suppose I must get this cleared up."

      "I confess I don't know where we are at all, now," said the Rector dully. "Ought we to call in the police, after all?"

      "You'd better consult the Squire. But I warn you it might prove dangerous. The police would know how to set a more effective trap than your little Postmistress."

      The old startled expression shot into the Rector's eyes at the mention of a snare.

      "Do come out into the open yourself," he urged. "Whom do you suspect?"

      "Two persons—and one of them is Miss Brook. I confess I incline to my second choice, from a point of psychological interest. But I'm still in need of a second specimen of printing, in order to prove my theory."

      The Rector's heart was very heavy when he walked through his loved village. It was a crystal day, when he seemed to be gazing through water at the sharp green outlines of the distant Downs. The cottage gardens were crammed with flowers. Summer was holding out her hands to touch Autumn's fingertips, so that both Seasons contributed their offerings. Dahlias, sunflowers, hollyhocks and phlox grew beside pansies, pinks, marigolds and snapdragons.

      In his mood of depression all this profusion of beauty made the contrast of the reality more poignant. In the old days, even Death respected the village's leisurely procedure, for he never paid a professional visit without the preliminary of warning taps on each door.

      But, within three months, three prominent lives had been ruthlessly cut short. Who would be next to go?

      As the thought flashed through the Rector's mind, a familiar figure, who was standing by the War Memorial, crossed the sun-speckled Green, and began to walk by his side.

      The Rector accepted his company, as a matter-of-course, and with none of the shrinking horror with which he first glimpsed a black shape, which hid in corners, and stalked footsteps.

      Although he did not know that he walked with Fear, the current of his thoughts was directed into dark channels. He thought of the three new graves in the churchyard, and wondered when there would be another.

      Underneath its beauty, the village was soaked with intrigue.

      A secret chain of letters was passing from door to door, yet he had been able to see only an occasional broken link. Everyone was in the conspiracy, either as active agents or passive pawns.

      The place itself had changed. Lawns were shaven and flower-borders prolific; but there was no bi-weekly garden-party, while tennis-racquets and croquet-mallets were used only in family games.

      Who was responsible for it? Even as he asked the question, Fear whispered several selected names into his ear.

      Vivian Sheriff hooted him out of her way, as she drove Major Blair back with her, to the Hall. The Rector broadened his smile of greeting, in order to make it include congratulations, and was chilled by her perfunctory response.

      The girl had none of the radiance he had expected to see in a future bride. She wore a white knitted cap, and her flower-face—unshaded by the customary brim—looked smaller, as though shrunken by worry.

      'Remorse?' he wondered. 'Is it you?'

      The doctor had declared the writer to be a pathological case, and Fear reminded him that all the ingredients for such a condition could be found at the Hall. The Squire dominated both his wife and his daughter, so that either might be driven to find some crooked vent for self-expression.

      Then Fear switched off to another more interesting theory.

      After all, the Squire was an honest John Bull, with all the national virtues, while the Hall was typical of English family life. It was likelier that the Sheriffs' happiness and prosperity had roused the envy of one who was not so fortunately-placed. One whose personal attractions entitled her to expect a better deal from