Mr. Finch¹ smells Money

A DOMESTIC alarm deferred² for some hours our proposed walk to Browndown.

The old nurse, Zillah, was taken ill in the night. She was so little relieved by such remedies as we were able to apply, that it became necessary to summon the doctor in the morning. He lived at some distance from Dimchurch; and he had to send back to his own house for the medicines required. As a necessary result of these delays, it was close on one o’clock in the afternoon before the medical remedies had their effect, and the nurse was sufficiently³ recovered to permit of our leaving her in the servant’s care.

We had dressed for our walk (Lucilla being ready long before I was), and had got as far as the garden gate on our way to Browndown — when we heard, on the other side of the wall, a man’s voice, pitched in superbly deep bass⁴ tones, pronouncing these words:

“Believe me, my dear sir, there is not the least difficulty. I have only to send the cheque to my bankers at Brighton.”

Lucilla started, and caught hold of me by the arm.

“My father!” she exclaimed in the utmost astonishment⁵. “Who is he talking to?”

The key of the gate was in my possession. “What a grand voice your father has got!” I said, as I took the key out of my pocket. I opened the gate. There, confronting us on the threshold, arm in arm, as if they had known each other from childhood, stood Lucilla’s father, and — Oscar Dubourg!

Reverend Finch opened the proceedings⁶ by folding his daughter affectionately in his arms.

“My dear child!” he said, “I received your letter — your most interesting letter — this morning. The moment I read it I felt that I owed a duty to Mr. Dubourg. As pastor⁷ of Dimchurch, it was clearly

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