“Good night, my leddy,” cried the old man, chuckling. “Don’t you be skeered. I’ll do it, and p’r’aps to-night.”
Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.
Moredock Keeps his Word.
Old Moredock kept his word, for after leaving North alone to carry out his experiment, he went round the old church, proceeding cautiously from tombstone to tombstone, his red, watery eyes twinkling with excitement, till he reached the belfry door.
This yielded to the key he always carried, deep down in his old coat pocket, and passing through into the lower part of the tower, he continued his way by the low, arched doorway to the font.
Here he paused and listened, but all was perfectly still, and, running his hand along the tops of the pews, he went slowly on till he reached the screen, where he hesitated for a few moments, and then littering a low chuckle, that sounded like that of a cuckoo over a caterpillar feast, he turned aside, mounted the stairs, and seated himself in the pulpit, where he made himself comfortable with the big purple velvet cushion, and waited patiently for what was to come.
He had not to wait long, for as he sat, with his arms resting on the front of the oaken erection, his ears twitching, a familiar sound in the church porch warned him that some one was at hand.
Drawing in his breath he strained his eyes, and before long he had the satisfaction of seeing the matter-of-fact elucidation of the mystery which had shaken his well-hardened nerves, for though much less plainly seen, and from a different point of view, there was the draped head which had alarmed him passing before the pulpit, round into the chancel, and into the vestry, whose latch gave a slight click.