“If your friend Gray dares to sell my little property—all I have—then I shall institute criminal proceedings against him,” he told the woman frankly, whereupon his unwelcome visitor opened her little brown leather handbag and from it produced a crumpled envelope, out of which she took three tattered newspaper cuttings, saying coldly:
“Perhaps you had better read these before you utter threats,” and she handed them to him.
He held his breath, and the light died from his thin countenance. He pushed them aside with trembling hands.
“You know to what they refer, Mr Homfray—to your appearance under another name!” sneered Freda Crisp. “You are the highly respected rector of this picturesque, though obscure, little parish, but if your parishioners knew the truth I fancy that they and your bishop would have something to say about it. Is it just to the public that a man such as yourself should dare to wear a surplice and have the audacity to preach sermons?”
The Rector of Little Farncombe remained silent. His face was deathly white, his hands trembled, and his eyes were staring. He had suspected that the one great secret of his life was known. But it appeared that not only was it known to the unscrupulous man who had once been his friend, but also to the woman before him, who was his bitterest enemy!
“So the pair of you have learnt my secret!” he said in a low, hard voice. “And I suppose you intend to blackmail me—eh?”
The dark-haired woman laughed.
“Gordon only wants his money back, that’s all.”
“And you have forced him to take up this hostile attitude,” he said. “You are my enemy. I know it. Well, what do you intend to do?”
“It isn’t my affair,” she declared. “Gray now knows that the money you borrowed from him was in order to help your fellow-criminal—a man who once did him an evil turn—after he had served his sentence. He wants his money back, and he is going to take it. The property will be up for auction in a week or so.”