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 told us that it was 'The George.' Yet, farther on, an incongruous note was struck by a glaring red-brick shop called 'The Stockhurst Stores.'

That morning was bright and crisp, with a clear blue sky. Indeed, before we had left we noted that the barometer was rising, and that the flight conditions were hourly improving.

A little way out of the village we came upon the fine old ivy-covered church, with a tall spire of a type similar to that of St. Martin's in Trafalgar Square, while the dimensions of the aisle showed that it had been built in the long ago medieval days when Stockhurst had been one of the important market-towns of that district, until other and more convenient markets had sapped its trade, and it had slowly dwindled down to an obscure little place known only by reason of the monumental brasses and beautiful stained glass of its church, which Thomas Cromwell had happily spared.

Pulling up the car, I placed a file, a pair of heavy cutting-pliers, a piece of asbestos cloth and a short length of copper-wire cable in my pockets and, with Teddy, wandered through the graveyard in pretence of inspecting the exterior of the beautiful castellated fabric. By some arched windows we saw that its earlier portions were undoubtedly Norman,, while others were of the Perpendicular Period. These we examined, and discussed, in order not to attract the undue attention of anybody in the vicinity.

We tried all the doors, much gratified, in secret, to find them locked. It proved the absence of any sexton or cleaner.

During our inspection of the church tower we had