His first application was to one of the Canons. Did he know where the ecclesiastical records were kept? Well, it was odd, but it never entered his head to inquire. He really did _not_ know. Perhaps some of the Chapter officials could tell. To one of these, hies Mr. Wallace. Even that functionary--whose courteousness, together with that of his colleague, was pleasant to the applicant by the force of mere contrast--was equally unable to reveal the secret. "But surely," he added, "such a place cannot, when one sets about it, be so impenetrable a mystery. I have an idea that the _Miller_ could enlighten you." "The Miller?" "Yes. He knows everything about the town. Try him." Mr. Wallace had business at the searching office, and having transacted it, determined to make another effort in this legitimate quarter. The following short dialogue occurred between him and the clerk:--"Pray," said Mr. Wallace, "where are the Wills kept?" "That's not your business!" was the answer. Mr. Wallace returned to the charge but the clerk became deaf, and went on with some writing, precisely as if Mr. William Wallace were invisible and inaudible. The Miller was the only resource. He was from home, and his wife gave the same answer as everybody else had done. "But," she said, pointing to an individual who was sauntering into the Close, "there's one as can tell 'ee. He's a _rachetty_ man--he is." Without waiting to inquire the meaning of this strange expression, off starts the record-hunter upon the new secret. He runs down his game in no time. It consists of a burly biped, bearing a cage of fine ferrets. Round his person is displayed the broad insignia of office,--he is a rat-catcher. Here Mr. William Wallace's perseverance triumphs. The Rat-catcher knows all about it. "Why you see, Sir," he said, "I contracts for the Registrar." "What for?" "What for? Why, I catches the rats for him at so much a-year." "And where do you catch them?" "Where do I catch them? Why, where the old wills is." "And where is that?" "Where is that? Why, _there_." The Rat-catcher points to a sort of barn that rises from the edge of the Minster Pool. It has no windows on the ground-floor. On the first-floor are six--two in the front of the building and four at the end,--twenty-seven windows less than are displayed in the front of the Registrar's beautifully glazed house; but much of the little glass afforded to the registry is broken. To mend it upon seven thousand a-year would never do, especially when old parchment is lying about in heaps. Why pay glaziers' charges when ancient wills and other ecclesiastical records keep out wind and weather as well as glass?--for light is a thing rather to be shunned than admitted into such places. Accordingly, as the Rat-catcher points to the shed, Mr. Wallace observes numberless ends of record rolls and bundles of engrossed testaments poked into the broken windows: in some places variegated with old rags.