"Yes. I received a letter this morning."
"I see." For a moment Anstice sat in silence, his lips set firmly together; and the other man, watching, was struck, as Sir Richard had been on the previous day, by the look of suffering in his face. "Well, Carey, is it asking you too much to let me know exactly what form the accusation against me took? Or have you the letter with you?"
"No. I burnt the letter immediately," Carey answered. "Naturally such communications are best destroyed—and forgotten—at once. But"—he hesitated—"the fact is I have since discovered that I am not the only person to be addressed by the unknown correspondent."
"Indeed?" Anstice's eyes flashed. "Is it permissible to ask who else has been thus—honoured?"
The clergyman paused a moment before replying, and it was evident a conflict was taking place in his mind. The struggle was, however, soon terminated, and he answered Anstice's question resolutely.
"Yes, it is quite permissible. Indeed, I had already gained the consent of the other—victim"—he smiled deprecatingly—"to tell you, if necessary, what was being said behind your back."
"Well?" Anstice's tone was peremptory, but his friend did not resent it.
"The other anonymous letter—the only other one of which I have any knowledge—was addressed to the wife of your colleague—I don't think he's your rival—Dr. Willows."
"Oh!" Anstice opened his eyes; he had not expected this revelation. "Poor little woman! What a shame to victimize her!"
"Yes—as you know, she's quite a girl, they've only been married three months; and the letter worried her considerably—so much so, in fact, that as Willows is away on a week's holiday she sent for me to advise her in the matter."