For a moment or two, this precipitate retreat of the churchwarden had something contagious in it, and the whole of the men who had been induced to stop and go into the church with him were inclined to retreat likewise; but curiosity detained some three of four of them, and that gave courage to the others.
"What was it?" said one.
"A groan," said another; "and it came from the pulpit."
"The pulpit!" cried everybody.
"Who ever heard of a pulpit groaning?" cried a third.
"You stupid!" cried the second speaker: "might it not be some one in the pulpit?—and—Oh Lord—there's a head!"
At this they all took to flight; but at the door they encountered a man, who called out—
"What's the matter? Can't you tell a fellow what the blessed row is—eh?"
This was no other than our old friend Crotchet, who was returning from a conference with Sir Richard Blunt at his private office in Craven Street.
"Oh, it's a ghost! A ghost!"