again.

Immediately after the third cry she heard a slow step on the stones
of the Dark Entry, passing close to her but muffled by the intervening
walls. It went on very slowly indeed; it was a dragging footfall; the
sound of it presently died away.

Then she sat down on the bench close to the wall. She still felt
distressed, even afraid. Whoever it was--that loiterer in the Dark
Entry--he had left the corridor by the archway near Little Cloisters; he
had not gone into the Green Court.

She sat waiting in the darkness.

* * * * *

That afternoon, while Rosamund was in the garden, Mr. Esme Darlington
was paying a little visit to his old friend and crony, the Dean of
Welsley. He had known the Dean--well, almost ever since he could
remember, and the Dean's wife ever since she had married the Dean. His
delay in returning to town, caused by Rosamund's attractive invitation,
enabled him to spend an hour at the Deanery, where he had tea in the
great drawing-room on the first floor, which looked out on the Green
Court. So pleasant were the Dean and his wife, so serenely flowed the
conversation, that the hour lengthened out into two hours, and the
Cathedral chimes announced that it was a quarter to seven before Mr.
Darlington uncrumpled his length to go. Even then Mrs. Dean begged him
to stay on a little longer.

"It's such a treat to hear all the interesting gossip of London," she
said, almost wistfully. "When Dickie"--Dickie was the Dean,--"when
Dickie was at St. Peter's, Eaton Square, we knew everything that was
going on, but here in Welsley--well, I often feel rather rusty."

Mr. Darlington paid the appropriate compliment, not in a banal way,
and then mentioned that at half-past seven he was dining in Little
Cloisters.

"That delightful creature Mrs. Dion Leith!" exclaimed Mrs. Dean.
"Dickie's hopelessly in her toils."

"My dear!" began the Dean, in pleased protestation.

But she interrupted him.

"I assure you," she went on to Mr. Darlington, "he is always making
excuses to see her. She has even influenced him to appoint a new verger,
a most extraordinary old person, called Thrush, with a nose!"

Mr. Darlington cocked an interrogative eyebrow.

"My darling!" said the Dean. "He's a good old man, very deserving, and
has recently taken the pledge."

"He's a modified teetotaler!" said his wife to Mr. Darlington, patting
her husband's arm. "You see what Dickie's coming to. If it goes on he
will soon be a modi