He was a good type of the conventional curate,
with a rather pale, good-humoured face set between his round collar and
wide brimmed hat, and he glanced at Copplestone with friendly curiosity
and something of a question in his eyes. And Copplestone, out of good
neighbourliness, stopped and spoke to him.
"Mrs. Wooler tells me you're come here to pick up," he remarked. "Pretty
strong air round this quarter of the globe!"
"Oh, that's all right!" said the new arrival. "The air of Scarhaven
will do me good--it's full of just what I want." He gave Copplestone
another look and then glanced at the letters which he held in his hand.
"Are you going to the post-office?" he asked. "May I come?--I want to
go there, too."
The two young men walked out of the inn, and Copplestone led the way
down the road towards the northern quay. And once they were well out
of earshot of the "Admiral's Arms," and the two or three men who
lounged near the wall in front of it, the curate turned to his
companion with a sly look.
"Of course you're Mr. Copplestone?" he remarked. "You can't be anybody
else--besides, I heard the landlady call you so."
"Yes," replied Copplestone, distinctly puzzled by the other's manner.
"What then?"
The curate laughed quietly, and putting his fingers inside his heavy
overcoat, produced a card which he handed over.
"My credentials!" he said.
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