"But that's most unusual and inconsiderate. If you want to go, a week's notice——"
"It's too important for that, sir. Of course I am ready to forego my week's wages, but go I must."
"Not a death in the family, I hope?" said Mr. Peters, subduing the impatience of his tone. "If so, I'm very sorry, and of course——"
"No, sir: nothing serious—serious in that sense at least. I am sorry to have to give notice in such a hurry, but it must be done."
"Very well," replied the vicar, resuming an every-day voice. "Legally, of course, you couldn't demand your wages; but I have no intention of standing on the letter of the law. I might as well pay you now. Let's see——" He searched his pockets for change.
"Thank you, sir," replied the odd-job man. "You're very good to be so reasonable, and I wish I could oblige you by staying. Instead, if you'll kindly put a sovereign in the poor-box for me, I shall be satisfied."
"Eh—eh!" stammered the vicar. "Has all the world gone mad this morning? A sovereign in the poor-box, from my gardener! Wh—what——"
"A little mad, sir?" smiled Henry Brown. "Perhaps there's some excuse. Good-by and thank you."
He touched his hat and left the Shereling garden forever. Mr. Peters stared dumbly after him. He could make nothing of it, however, so he came to the sensible resolution of setting out on his investigations at once. Taking a stick in his hand, he trudged toward The Quiet House. Here, by the way, he was told there was nobody at home.
Henry Brown, whistling a cheerful strain, betook himself to The Happy Heart. He found the motor-car standing outside, the chauffeur indulging in a cigarette. Voices from the parlor indicated that the landlord was trying to reason with two ladies, neither of whom seemed to be amenable to treatment.