Rampole did not know what to expect. He held his ground at the doctor's elbow, though the others had instinctively backed away. During an instant of silence they heard rats stirring behind the wainscot.
"Well?" demanded the rector, his voice high.
"I don't see anything," said Dr. Fell. "Here, young fellow — strike a match, will you?"
Rampole cursed himself when he broke off the head of the first match. He struck another, but the dead air of the vault extinguished it the moment he put it inside. Stepping inside, he tried another. Mould and damp, and a strand of cobweb brushing his neck. Now a tiny blue flame burnt in the cup of his hand….
A stone enclosure, six feet high and three or four feet deep. Shelves at the back, and what looked like rotting books. That was all. A sort of dizziness went from him, and he steadied his hand.
"Nothing," he said.
"Unless," said Dr. Fell, chuckling, "unless it got out."
"Cheerful blighter, aren't you?" demanded Sir Benjamin. "Look here — we've been wandering about in a nightmare, you know. I'm a business man, a practical man, a sensible man. But I give you my word, gentlemen, that damned place put the wind up me for a moment. It did for a fact."
Saunders ran his handkerchief round under his chin. He had suddenly become pink and beaming, drawing a gusty lungful of air and making a broad unctuous gesture.
"My dear Sir Benjamin," he protested, boomingly, "nothing of the kind! As you say — practical men. As a servant of the Church, you know, I must be the most practical person of all in regard to — ah — matters of this kind. Nonsense! Nonsense!"