"I've buried hundreds of corps," he growled, "and not one of 'em's goed away. What 'ud they go for? I make 'em comfortable, I do."
"Hold the light steady, Jarks," said the Rector, whose own hand was just as unsteady. He could hardly get the key into the lock.
At last the door was open, and headed by Jarks with the lantern, they entered. The cold, earthy smell, the charnel-house feeling shook the nerves of both men. Jarks, accustomed as he was to the presence of the dead, hobbled along without showing any emotion other than wrath, and triumphantly swung the lantern towards a niche wherein reposed a coffin.
"Ain't he there quite comfortable?" wheezed he. "Don't I tell you they never goes from here! It's a lovely vault; no corp 'ud need a finer."
"Wait a bit!" said Alan, stepping forward. "Turn the light along the top of the coffin, Jarks. Hullo! the lid's loose!"
"An' unscrewed!" gasped the sexton. "He's bin getting out."
"Unscrewed--loose!" gasped the Rector in his turn. The poor man felt deadly sick. "There must be some mistake."
"No mistake," said Alan, slipping back the lid. "The body has been stolen."
"No 't'ain't!" cried Jarks, showering the light on the interior of the coffin. "There he is, quiet an'--why," the old man broke off with a cry, "the corp ain't in his winding-sheet!"
Phelps looked, Alan looked. The light shone on the face of the dead.