office, stood on the outer threshold, and looked up and down the
street.

To his left the ground sloped downward through a narrowing perspective
of house-fronts and roof cornices to faint white mist, in which one
could see some cattle moving vaguely, and beyond which, if one knew
that it was there, one might just discern a wide space of common land
stretching away boldly until the dark barrier of woods stopped it
short. To his right the ground lay level, with the road enlarging
itself to a dusty bay in front of the Roebuck Inn, turning by the
churchyard wall, forking between two gardened houses of gentlefolk,
and losing itself suddenly in the same white mist that closed the
other vista. Over the veiling whiteness, over the red roofs, and high
above the church tower, the sky of a glorious July morning rose
unstained to measureless arches of blue.

As always in this early hour of the day, the postmaster thought of his
own importance. The village seemed still half asleep--blinds down
wherever he looked--lazy, money-greedy tradesmen not yet alive to
their selfish enterprises--only the poor laborers of the soil already
at work; and nevertheless here was he, William Dale, up and about,
carrying on the continuous business of the state.

But how long would he be permitted to feel like this? Could it be
possible that the end of his importance was near at hand?

_On Her Majesty's Service!_ He opened the envelope, unfolded the folio
sheet of paper that it contained, began to read--and immediately all
the blood in his body seemed to rush to his head.