"The air of Scarhaven will do me good--it's full of just what I want." He gave Copplestone another look and then glanced at the letters which he held in his hand.
"Are you going to the post-office ?" he asked.

"May I come ?--I want to go there, too." The two young men walked out of the inn, and Copplestone led the way down the road towards the northern quay.

And once they were well out of earshot of the "Admiral's Arms," and the two or three men who lounged near the wall in front of it, the curate turned to his companion with a sly look.
"Of course you're Mr.Copplestone ?" he remarked.

"You can't be anybody else--besides, I heard the landlady call you so." "Yes," replied Copplestone, distinctly puzzled by the other's manner.
"What then ?" The curate laughed quietly, and putting his fingers inside his heavy overcoat, produced a card which he handed over.
"My credentials!" he said.
Copplestone glanced at the card and read "Sir Cresswell Oliver," He turned wonderingly to his companion, who laughed again.
"Sir Cresswell told me to give you that as soon as I conveniently could," he said.

"The fact is, I'm not a clergyman at all--not I! I'm a private detective, sent down here by him and Petherton.