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 coming to, Henslow,” he says. “Why you should all take to your heels when a stick of wood tumbles down I cannot imagine,” and all Henslow could do, explaining he was right away on the other side of the tomb, would not satisfy him.

‘Then Palmer came back and reported there was nothing to account for this noise and nothing seemingly fallen down, and when the Dean finished feeling of himself they gathered round—except my father, he sat where he was—and some one lighted up a bit of candle and they looked into the tomb. “Nothing there,” says the Dean, “what did I tell you? Stay! here’s something. What’s this: a bit of music paper, and a piece of torn stuff—part of a dress it looks like. Both quite modern—no interest whatever. Another time perhaps you’ll take the advice of an educated man”—or something like that, and off he went, limping a bit, and out through the north door, only as he went he called back angry to Palmer for leaving the door standing open. Palmer called out “Very sorry, sir,” but he shrugged his shoulders, and Henslow says, “I fancy Mr. Dean’s mistaken. I closed the door behind me, but he’s a little upset.” Then Palmer says, “Why, where’s Worby?” and they saw him sitting on the step and went up to him. He