Mr. Bent had been a puzzle to him. The flippancy of his tone and manner at masters’ meetings had often been annoying; but he had sometimes said things which suggested ideals and a breadth of view at variance with his apparent cynicism. When, therefore, as they were passing his house, Mr. Bent said, “Won’t you come in and have a cup of tea?” Mr. Flaggon accepted the invitation. That walk and tea led to other walks and other teas. Mr. Bent recognised in the headmaster a man of great mental alertness and wide interests; and Mr. Flaggon discovered an unexpectedly serious vein in his companion, veiled, as it often was, under an ironic humour. As conversation became more intimate, Mr. Bent ventured one day to express his inner feelings about Chiltern and the Lanchester tradition. “We are haunted here,” he said, “as you have doubtless observed, by the ghost of greatness; and it won’t let us speak, or think, or do. Nothing is so paralysing (the preachers call it inspiring) as the memory of a great man. If I want a new Latin prose book, I can’t have it because Dr. Lanchester taught out of the old one; and if I want a window that will open, it is impossible because Lanchester didn’t believe in ventilation. This, of course, is fearful heresy, and men have died on the scaffold for less.” “I’m sorry,” said Mr. Flaggon with a laugh, “that you are so prejudiced against Lanchester, because I had a proposal to make to you. I’ve just come into possession of some papers of his, and I am going to ask you to look through them for me and see if they contain anything of real interest. I simply haven’t got time myself.” “Oh, of course, I wasn’t crabbing the _real_ Lanchester,” said Mr. Bent; “it’s only his ghost that annoys me. The _man_ was an educational reformer, but the _ghost_ is only a glorified cricket ‘pro.’ What are the papers?” “They have been sent me,” replied the headmaster, “by a Mrs. Core, whose grandfather wrote the life of Dr. Lanchester. Probably the best things are in the book already, but there may be a gem here and there that has been passed over. Would you care to do a little sifting?” “I should love it,” said Mr. Bent. “You see, we have done what the descendants of prophet-slayers always do. We have hidden away _our_ prophet under a showy tomb, built out of the very stones that slew him. I should vastly enjoy digging for his bones.”