THE SECOND LETTER.
Meanwhile certain small events not unconnected with this history were happening at St. Hospital.
At ten o'clock punctually Mr. Colt waited on the Master. This was a part of the daily routine, but ninety-nine times in a hundred the Chaplain's report resolved itself into a chat on the weather, the Master's roses, some recent article in the Church Times or the Guardian. The talk was never very strenuous; for whereas Mr. Colt could never learn to distinguish one rose from another, on Church affairs or on politics the Master was hopelessly tolerant, antiquated, incurious even. What could one do with a dear old gentleman who, when informed of the latest, most dangerous promotion to a bishopric, but responded with "Eh? 'So-and-so,' did you say? … Yes, yes. I knew his father… an excellent fellow!"
This morning, however, the Chaplain wore a grave face. After a few words he came to business.
"It concerns a letter I received this morning. The writer, who signs himself 'Well Wisher,' makes a disgusting allegation against old Bonaday—an incredibly disgusting allegation. You will prefer to read it for yourself."
Mr. Colt produced the letter from his pocket-book, and held it out.
"Eh?" exclaimed Master Blanchminster, receding. "Another?"
"I beg your pardon—?"
The Master adjusted his glasses, and bent forward, still without offering to touch the thing or receive it from Mr. Colt's hand.
"Yes, yes. I recognise the handwriting.… To tell the truth, my dear Colt, I received just such a letter one day last week. For the moment it caused me great distress of mind."