For The Defence, Dr. Thorndyke

IT was about four o'clock on a summer afternoon when Andrew Barton, pipe
in mouth and garden shears in hand, suspended for a moment his
operations on the privet hedge in his front garden to glance down the
lane at the postman, who had just turned into it from the road at the
end. It was a glance of no special interest. He was not expecting any
communication. But as there was no other house in the lane--which
presently petered out into a foot-path across fields--it was obvious that
his own residence was the goal of the postman's peregrinations.

He observed the man's approach intermittently, punctuating his
observations with perfunctory snips at the hedge and speculating vaguely
and incuriously on the source of the letter which the messenger was
presumably coming to deliver. He was not particularly interested. Yet
even a rural postman, though less portentous than the telegraph boy,
embodies untold potentialities of good or evil, of joy or sorrow, of
fortune or disaster. But Andrew was not particularly interested; and
thus he watched, unmoved and unsuspecting, the approach of Fate's
special messenger, charged with a message the significance of which was
only by degrees to be unfolded.

The man strode up to the gate with a letter in his hand and ran his eye
critically over the half-cropped hedge. "I see you are havin' a bit of a
tidy-up, sir," he remarked as he handed the letter over the gate; "and
none too soon. He was getting rare straggly. But Lord! How the stuff do
grow this weather! 'Tis out of bounds almost afore you've done
a-trimmin' of it."

As Andrew showed no sign of rising to this conversational bait, beyond a
vague assent, the postman wished him "good afternoon", took another
glance at the hedge and turned back down the lane, a little disconcerted
by Mr. Barton's unwonted taciturnity. "Didn't seem to like the look of
that letter," he mused as he swung along in his heavy, nailed boots.
"Someone dunning him for money, maybe."

It was a simple and reasonable explanation of the sudden change in
Andrew's expression as he read the address on the envelope and glanced
at the postmark, and not so very wide of the truth. But "dunning" was
not quite the right word, since that implies a demand for payment of a
lawful debt. Of such demands Andrew Barton had no experience, being a
scrupulously prompt paymaster. But a glance at the too-familiar
handwriting prepared him for a demand of another kind, and the only
question was, "How much does he want this time?" He tore the envelope
open with angry impatience and read the answer to that question.

"16, Barleymow Street, Crompton-on-Sea. 21st August, 1928.

"My dear Old Chappie,

"What a time it is since I had the felicity of looking at your blessed
old mug! Years and years! I am just pining for the sight of you; and no
doubt you are equally pining for the sight of me. I hope so. Because I
am going to satisfy my yearning and I should like to satisfy yours at
the same time. In short, I propose to pop over this day week and shed
the light of my countenance on you and Molly. I shall turn up to lunch.

"Your affectionate and devoted, though unfortunate cousin,