nished. Westray went
down from the organ-loft, and as he walked through the church the very
last change was rung. Before the hum and mutter had died out of the
air, and while the red-faced ringers in the belfry were quaffing their
tankards, the architect had made his way to the scaffolding, and stood
face to face with the zigzag crack. He looked at it carefully, as a
doctor might examine a wound; he thrust his hand like Thomas into the
dark fissure. No, there was no change; the paper strip was unbroken,
the tie-rods had done their work nobly. Sir George had been quite right
after all.

And as he looked there was the very faintest noise heard--a whisper, a
mutter, a noise so slight that it might have passed a hundred times
unnoticed. But to the architect's ear it spoke as loudly as a
thunderclap. He knew exactly what it was and whence it came; and
looking at the crack, saw that the broad paper strip was torn half-way
across. It was a small affair; the paper strip was not quite parted, it
was only torn half-way through. Though Westray watched for an hour, no
further change took place. The ringers had left the tower, the little
town had resumed its business. Clerk Janaway was walking across the
church, when he saw the architect leaning against a cross-pole of the
scaffolding, on the platform high up under the arch of the south
transept.

"I'm just a-locking up," he called out. "You've got your own key, sir,
no doubt?"

Westray gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Well, we haven't brought the tower down this time," the clerk went on.
But Westray made no answer; his eyes were fixed on the little half-torn
strip of paper, and he had no thought for anything else. A minute later
the old man stood beside him on the platform, puffing after the ladders
that he had climbed. "No int'rupted peal this time," he said; "we've
fair beat the neb'ly coat at last. Lord Blandamer back, and an heir to
keep the family going. Looks as if the neb'ly coat was losing a bit of
his sting, don't it?" But Westray was moody, and said nothing. "Why
what's the matter? You bain't took bad, be you?"

"Don't bother me now," the architect said sharply. "I wish to Heaven
the peal _had_ been interrupted. I wish your bells had never been rung.
Look there"--and he pointed at the strip of paper.

The clerk went closer to the crack, and looked hard at the silent
witness. "Lor' bless you! that ain't nothing," he said; "'tis only just
th