There was but one candle on the table, and Henry Arkell pulled out his handkerchief and rubbed it over his face: between the handkerchief and the dim light, the master failed to detect any signs of emotion.
"Did you get fingering the register-book in St. James's, the night you were in the church?"
"No, sir, that I did not," he readily answered.
"Had you a light in the church?"
"You boys have a propensity for concealing matches in your clothes, in defiance of the risk you run," interrupted Mr. Prattleton. "Had you any that night?"
"I had no matches, and I had no light," replied Henry. "None of the boys keep matches about them except those who"—smoke, was the ominous word which had all but escaped his lips—"who are careless."
"Pray what did you do with yourself all the time?" resumed the master.
"I played the organ for a long while, and then I lay down on the singers' seat, and went to sleep."
"Now comes the point: how did you get out?"
"I can't say anything about it, sir, except that I found the door open towards morning, and I walked out."