cushion, because the green and white beads in the design of a laurel wreath looked cool. The light that came between the green curtains was restful. Jock was making a very soothing sound licking his paws. Derek began to get drowsy. . . .
He had had a sort of cat nap when he was roused by Phœbe. She was bending over him, whispering, her face close to his. The pupils of her eyes seemed to jig with excitement behind her thick spectacles. "Wake up," she whispered, hoarsely, "Chard and the minister from Mistwell's outside waitin' to see ye."
"To see me? What for?"
Phœbe regarded him sorrowfully. "Can't ye guess?" She pointed dramatically to the room above.
Derek reddened and sat up with dishevelled hair. "If that's the case, I'll make short work of them. Show them in, Phœbe."
Phœbe, heavy with importance, stamped out. He heard her trip on the step that led to the dining room, and he pictured how she would plunge across the floor. A moment more and his neighbour and the minister stood before him.
"You are energetic, making calls on a morning like this," said Derek, cheerfully. "Won't you sit down?"
The two men stared about the room, obviously taken aback at being received in such state. Then Chard, with his pale grin, said, "Allow me to introduce my friend and pastor, Mr. Barker, Mr. Vale."
Derek recognized Mr. Barker as the minister who had played the autoharp at the funeral of Solomon Sharroe. With his oily skin and opaque dark eyes, he looked rather like an unpleasant foreigner. He took Derek's hand in his and held it in a fervent grasp.
"Mr. Vale," he said, "I wish I might have met you first in the little church where we worship. But, better late than
