“Can I be looking over the volume for the preceding year?” said Rawton, carelessly.
“Oh, certainly, sir, if you please. My eyesight is not so good as it was, but my memory is good, and I think I can recollect two persons bearing the names here written down.”
The gipsy meanwhile turned over the pages of the other volume. He soon came to the page on which his own name and that of Hester Teige was inscribed. He slid a piece of paper between the leaf and turned over the others. Then he drew his hand across his forehead.
Immediately after this a loud crash was heard. The sound reverberated through the aisles with terrible force.
“Mercy on us, what’s the matter?—some accident to the church!” cried the gipsy, in a tone of alarm. “Pray see what it is.”
The clerk was seriously alarmed, and, upon the impulse of the moment, rushed out into the body of the church.
This was Bill Rawton’s opportunity. With almost incredible rapidity he drew forth his penknife, which he had kept open in his coat pocket, passed the blade along at that side of the page which was fastened to the book, and drew it forth; then, folding it up, he thrust it into the breast pocket of his coat. When this had been done he went out of the little room and anxiously inquired what was the matter.
The clerk informed him that some evil-disposed person had thrown a stone at the church windows, one of the panes of which was broken. The stone was picked up inside the edifice.
“The mischievous, audacious scoundrel!” exclaimed Rawton. “Shall I try and catch him? He can’t be far off.”
“I wish you could.”