The vicar opened the front door and stepped out on the gravelled path, whereupon Mr Musgrave came quickly forward from his place of concealment, and, still looking nervous and painfully self-conscious, approached him.
“I am so glad you have come,” he said. “I was not sure whether you saw me.”
“Oh, I saw you,” the vicar answered. “Anyone might have seen you. If it had not been yourself, I should have suspected a design on my spoons. Why didn’t you come in?”
“I wanted to see you alone—on a very private matter. I want your help.”
The vicar looked faintly surprised. He had on occasions required John Musgrave’s help, though not in any personal sense, but he could not remember in all their long acquaintance that John Musgrave had made a demand of this nature before. It puzzled him to think what form the request would take.
“Whatever the service may be, you can count it as promised,” he said.
“Thank you,” Mr Musgrave returned warmly. “I know I can rely both on your assistance and on your discretion. The fact is, Walter, I have a—a—ahem! a note which I wish delivered to Miss Annersley by a trusty messenger. It must not reach any hand but her own, and—and I do not wish to send it by one of my servants. I would prefer that the messenger should be ignorant as to whom the note comes from.”
“Won’t the post serve?” the vicar asked, feeling strongly tempted to laugh.
“There isn’t time for the post; she must have the note this evening.”
“So imperative as all that!”