“In those days, Mrs. Drage, there was a door leading into the musicians’ gallery from one of the rooms of the house. It provided no avenue of escape if the house was surrounded—but its existence was unknown to the men before whose blows the other doors were already beginning to splinter. And suddenly through this door appeared Lady Wrothley. She had only recently married Sir James: in fact, her first baby was then on its way. Sir James saw her, and at once ceased his quarrel with Sir Henry. With dignity he mounted the stairs and approached his girl-wife—and in her horror-struck eyes he saw that she, too, suspected him of being the traitor. He raised her hand to his lips; and then as the doors burst open simultaneously and Wolsey’s men rushed in—he dived headforemost on to the floor below, breaking his neck and dying instantly. “The story goes on to say,” continued Mr. Williams, with a diffident cough, “that even while the butchery began in the room below—for most of the Protestants were unarmed—the poor girl collapsed in the gallery, and shortly afterwards the child was born. A girl baby, who survived, though the mother died. One likes to think that if she had indeed misjudged her husband, it was a merciful act on the part of the Almighty to let her join him so soon. Thank you, I will have another cup of tea. One lump, please.” “A most fascinating story, Mr. Williams,” said Phyllis. “Thank you so much for having told us. Can you make anything out of it, Tom?” I laughed. “The criminal reserves his defence. But it’s most interesting, Padre, most interesting, as Mrs. Drage says. If I may, I’d like to come and see that manuscript.” “I shall be only too delighted,” he murmured with old-fashioned courtesy. “Whenever you like.” And then the conversation turned on things parochial until he rose to go. The others had still not returned, and for a while we two sat on talking as the spirit moved us in the darkening room. At last the servants appeared to draw the curtains, and it was then that we heard Jack and Bill in the hall. I don’t know what made me make the remark; it seemed to come without my volition. “If I were you, Phyllis,” I said, “I don’t think I’d tell the story of the dining-room to Bill.” She looked at me curiously. “Why not?” “I don’t know—but I wouldn’t.” In the brightly lit room his fears of the morning seemed ridiculous; yet, as I say, I don’t know what made me make the remark. “All right; I won’t,” she said gravely. “Do you think——” But further conversation was cut short by the entrance of Bill and her husband. “Twelve miles if an inch,” growled Drage, throwing himself into a chair. “You awful fellow.” Sibton laughed. “Do you good, you lazy devil. He’s getting too fat, Phyllis, isn’t he?” I glanced at him as he, too, sat down: in his eyes there remained no trace of the terror of the morning. III