Seated on the floor, in the narrow space which separated the side of the tomb from the church wall, was a young man. A card blotting-book lay on his knees, a leather ink-bottle was stuck into the tracery of the tomb, and scattered round him were closely written sheets of manuscript. He looked up at the vicar's exclamation, but made no attempt to rise.
"Sir! What are you doing here?"
The vicar's voice was low, but in the "Sir!" there was infinite rebuke.
The intruder lifted his gaunt face the better to observe his questioner. Then he pointed to the scattered papers, saying:
"It is not difficult to see."
"But why do you write in my church?" persisted the vicar, peering over the side of the tomb at this strange sacrilegious person, with a curiosity that almost mastered his annoyance.
"Because there was nowhere else. I have done no harm to your church—besides, how is it more your church than mine?"
"Do you think you could come and converse with me in the porch upon this subject? I am old-fashioned, and your action strikes me as incongruous. Moreover, it tires me to stand."
The young man scrambled to his feet. Laying his hands upon the tomb's flat top he vaulted lightly over, and stood beside the vicar on the wider side of the tiny chapel.
The vicar frowned, demanding: