Yet his thoughts still ran on what he had seen, what he had heard, though they moved at present along the mere beaten channels of an ordinary curiosity. He would have liked to have asked about Billy Tremaine, for instance, though at the time he had felt that he must not. No further allusions had been made to the captain’s grandson, nor to the room which Miss Nancy had not taken Grif to see. Perhaps Billy Tremaine, too, was a sailor, and only came home at rare intervals:――perhaps he had just gone out for a walk. And yet――――They had not appeared to expect him to return, they had not said that Grif might see him another day:――only that he might see his room.... He was still pondering these and similar things when he reached the church, and the sound of the organ playing inside switched his thoughts on to quite another line. He remembered Mr. Bradley. That must be Mr. Bradley practising; and though Grif would naturally have preferred to hear him at a more interesting hour, such as midnight or thereabouts, he could not resist the temptation to take a peep in. The gate was unlocked, and he walked up a straight steep path, bordered by two lines of yew-trees. The church door was unlocked also, it was even slightly ajar. Grif pushed it open and slipped inside. It was not a large building, and very simple in design; but it was old and cool, and the late afternoon sun, streaming through the rose window, made it beautiful. In spite of the sun there was a light burning near the organ. Grif could see Mr. Bradley as he sat there playing, his head a little bent; and on tip-toe he glided up to the choir to listen. He loved listening to music, though he very seldom had an opportunity to do so. Now, in a corner of one of the choir-stalls, he was quiet as a mouse, or as a little ghost who had glided in from the grey and green churchyard outside. He did not know what it was Mr. Bradley had begun to play, but it was sad and quiet, and a kind of heavy dream seem to float from it, like a coil of smoke, so that Grif forgot where he was, forgot everything about him, and the walls of the church drifted away, while another picture took form before him, and he knew that he was in an old, old city, and that it was night. The streets of this city were narrow, the houses, with sharp gables and slanting roofs, stood out clearly in a faint light that was neither moonlight nor twilight. And each of the streets converged towards a single point, a kind of open square, at one end of which an immense church rose against the sky. Above the great central door was a crucifix, and high up on one of the towers a monstrous bird, black, with curved beak and red, glowing eyes, sat motionless, while from its folded wings darkness and silence poured down.