"No—no, I could not. Conwulsions—no!"
"Ah!" said Sir Richard Blunt. "I see how it is; I shall have to do all this business alone, and a pretty report I shall have to make to the Secretary of State about the proceedings of the authorities of St. Dunstan's."
The churchwarden groaned.
"I'm a coming, Sir Richard—I'm a coming. Oh dear, I tell you what it is, Mr. Beadle, if you don't follow me, and close too, I'll have you dismissed as sure as eggs is eggs."
"Conwulsions! conwulsions! I'm a coming."
The churchwarden descended the stairs, and the beadle followed him. Down—down they went, guided by the dim light of the torch carried by Sir Richard, who had not waited for them after the last words he had spoken.
"Can you fetch your blessed breath, sir?" said the beadle.
"Hardly," said the churchwarden, gasping. "It is a dreadful place."
"Oh, yes—yes."
"Stop—Stop. Sir Richard—Sir Richard!"