“What torment?” I inquired, surprised.
At that instant, however, the old verger, a man who spoke with a pronounced South London drawl, interrupted by dashing in alarmed and pale-faced, saying—
“There’s been a robbery, sir—an awful sacrilege!”
“Sacrilege!” echoed Yelverton, starting up.
“Yes, sir. The chalice you used this morning at Communion I put in the niche beside the organ, meaning to clean it to-night. I’ve always put it there these twelve years. But it’s gone.”
My friend went forth into the church, and I followed until we came to the niche which the old verger indicated.
There was no chalice there, but in its place only white ashes and a few pieces of metal melted out of all recognition.
All three of us stood gazing at the fused fragments of the sacramental cup, astonished and amazed.