y clear even above "Sharnall in D flat." "The arch never
sleeps," said that still and ominous voice. "The arch never sleeps;
they have bound on us a burden too heavy to be borne. We are shifting
it; we never sleep." And his eyes turned to the cross arches under the
tower. There, above the bow of the south transept, showed the great
crack, black and writhen as a lightning-flash, just as it had showed any
time for a century--just the same to the ordinary observer, but not to
the architect. He looked at it fixedly for a moment, and then,
forgetting Mr Sharnall and the music, left the loft, and made his way
to the wooden platform that the masons had built up under the roof.

Mr Sharnall did not even perceive that he had gone down, and dashed
_con furore_ into the _Gloria_. "Give me the full great," he called to
the architect, who he thought was behind him; "give me the full great,
all but the reed," and snatched the stops out himself when there was no
response. "It went better that time--distinctly better," he said, as
the last note ceased to sound, and then turned round for Westray's
comment; but the loft was empty--he was alone.

"Curse the fellow!" he said; "he might at least have let me know that he
was going away. Ah, well, it's all poor stuff, no doubt." And he shut
up the manuscript with a lingering and affectionate touch, that
contrasted with so severe a criticism. "It's poor stuff; why should I
expect anyone to listen to it?"

It was full two hours later that Westray came quickly into the
organist's room at Bellevue Lodge.

"I beg your pardon, Sharnall," he said, "for leaving you so cavalierly.
You must have thought me rude and inappreciative; but the fact is I was
so startled that I forgot to tell you why I went. While you were
playing I happened to look up at that great crack over the south
transept arch, and saw something very like recent movement. I went up
at once to the scaffolding, and have been there ever since. I don't
like it at all; it seems to me that the crack is opening, and extending.
It may mean very serious mischief, and I have made up my mind to go up
to London by the last train to-night. I must get Sir George Farquhar's
opinion at once."

The organist grunted. The wound inflicted on his susceptibility had
rankled deeply, and indignation had been tenderly nursed. A piece of
his mind was to have been given to Westray, and he regretted the very
reasonableness of the explanation