big, solemn, rather pompous clergyman received us in his study. Our telegram lay before him.
“Well, gentlemen,” he asked, “what can I do for you?”
“We came,” I explained, “in answer to your wire.”
“My wire! I sent no wire.”
“I mean the wire which you sent to Mr. Josiah Amberley about his wife and his money.”
“If this is a joke, sir, it is a very questionable one,” said the vicar angrily. “I have never heard of the gentleman you name, and I have not sent a wire to anyone.”
Our client and I looked at each other in amazement.
“Perhaps there is some mistake,” said I; ‘‘are there perhaps two vicarages? Here is the wire itself, signed Elman, and dated from the Vicarage.”
“There is only one vicarage, sir, and only one vicar, and this wire is a scandalous forgery, the origin of which shall certainly be investigated by the police. Meanwhile, I can see no possible object in prolonging this interview.”
So Mr. Amberley and I found ourselves on the roadside in what seemed to me to be the most primitive village in England. We made for the telegraph office, but it was already closed. There was a telephone, however, at the little ‘Railway Arms,’ and by it I got into touch with Holmes, who shared in our amazement at the result of our journey.
“Most singular!” said the distant voice. “Most remarkable! I much fear, my dear Watson, that there is no return train to-night. I have unwittingly condemned you to the horrors of a country inn. How-
