Dave shook his head.
"The mills are," he said modestly.
Chepstow laughed heartily.
"That's your way of putting it. You and the mills are one. Nobody ever speaks of one without including the other. You'll never marry, my boy. You are wedded to the shriek of your beloved buzz-saws. Here, take off those things and come in. We've got a drop of Mary's sloe gin somewhere."
They went into the parlor, and Dave removed his oilskins. While he hung them to drain on a nail outside, the parson poured him out a wineglass of his wife's renowned sloe gin. He drank it down quickly, not because he cared particularly about it, but out of compliment to his friend's wife. Then he set his glass down, and began to explain his visit.
"This isn't just a friendly visit, Tom," he said. "It's business. Bad business. You've got to help me out."
The parson opened his eyes. It was something quite new to have Dave demanding help.
"Go ahead," he said, his keen eyes lighting with amusement.
Dave drew a bunch of letters from his coat pocket. He glanced over them hastily, and picked out Mason's and handed it to the other. In picking it out he had discovered another letter he had left unopened.
"Read that," he said, while he glanced at the address on the unopened envelope.