Tom was at his wits’ ends. He might not defy the master, on the one hand; on the other, he knew the school would send him to Coventry for ever and a day, if he spoke; as he himself would have sent any other boy, in it, doing the same thing. He heartily wished Judy had been in Asia before she had spoken of it, and her tongue with her. “Were you in the affair yourself, pray?” asked the master. “No, sir, indeed I was not; and I do not know a single boy who was. I have heard nothing of it, except from Ketch.” “Then what is your objection to tell me?” “Well, sir, you know the rules we hold amongst ourselves,” said Tom, blurting out the truth, in his desperation. “I scarcely dare tell you.” “Yes, you dare, Channing, when I command you to do so,” was the significant answer. Tom had no resource left; and, very unwillingly, Ketch’s details were drawn from him, bit by bit. The sham invitation, the disappointment touching the tripe and onions, the missing the cloister keys when he reached home, and the finding them outside the west door. “Did he enter the cloisters and examine them?” said the master, speaking hastily. A possibility had struck him, which had not struck any of the Channings; and it was curious that it had not done so. “I think not, sir,” replied Tom. “Then, that’s where Charles is, locked up in the cloisters!” said the master, the recollection of the former locking-up no doubt helping him to the conclusion. “The fact of the keys having been left hanging outside the cloister door might have been sufficient to direct your suspicions.” Tom felt the force of the words, and was wondering how it was he had not thought of it, when a cry burst from Judith. “If he is there, he will never come out alive! Oh, sir, what will become of us?” The master was surprised. He knew it was not a desirable situation for any young boy; but “never come out alive” were strong terms. Judy explained them. She poured into the master’s ears the unhappy story of Charles having been frightened in childhood; of his propensity still to supernatural fears. “Make haste round! we must have the cloisters opened immediately!” exclaimed the master, as all the full truth of the dread imparted by Judith became clear to him. “Channing, you have light heels; run on, and knock up Ketch.” Tom tore off; never a lighter pair of heels than his, to-night; and the master and the old servant followed. The master’s sympathies, nay, his lively fears, were strongly awakened, and he could not leave the affair in this stage, late though the hour was. They arrived, to find Tom pummelling at Ketch’s door. But to pummel was one thing, and to arouse Mr. Ketch was another. Mr. Ketch chose to remain deaf. “I’ll try the window,” said Tom, “He must hear; his bed is close at hand.” He knocked sharply; and it at length elicited an answer from the drowsy gentleman, composed of growls and abuse. “Get up!” called out Tom. “The keys of the cloisters are wanted.”