"It is so profound a secret that the company at the gardens this evening are talking about nothing else."
The captain groaned. "I have received a letter," he said. "I do not believe it, but the contents are disquieting. There is no signature. Read it."
The vicar read it:
"Captain Crowle,—Sir,—You are a very simple old man; you are so ignorant of London and of the fashionable world that you do not even know that Lord Fylingdale, to whom you are about to give your ward, is the most notorious gambler, rake, and profligate in the whole of that quarter where the people of fashion and of quality carry on their profligate lives. In the interests of innocence and virtue make some inquiry into the truth of this statement before laying your lovely ward in the arms of the villain who has come to Lynn with no other object than to secure her fortune."
"It is an anonymous letter," said the vicar. "But there is something to be said in support of it. From what source did you derive your belief in the virtues of this young nobleman?"
"From Sam Semple."
"Who is in the service of his lordship. I know not what he does for him, but if he is turned out of that service he will infallibly be clapped into a debtor's prison."
"There is also that grave and reverend divine——"
"The man Purdon. He is notorious for writing ribald verses, and for leading a life that is a disgrace to his profession."
"There is also the Lady Anastasia."