At first the square seemed empty, but presently he became conscious of a procession of grey, cloaked figures moving across it. They passed beneath the crucifix, and the last figure of all stood still, lifting his head and throwing back his hood. Grif had a glimpse of a white face, but before he had time to recognize it it was blotted out. The streets were once more deserted; the dark bird had disappeared; a pale silvery light flooded everything. Then the whole scene whirled away from him as if blown by a sudden wind, and he was back in his choir-stall. Had he fallen asleep? He did not feel sleepy. But Mr. Bradley had stopped playing and Grif got up to go. Just then the organist turned round and caught sight of him. There was a jarring scream from the treble notes where his hand crashed down, and Mr. Bradley sprang to his feet, overturning a pile of music-books and the stool on which they stood. “It’s only me,” said Grif lamely, perceiving that for some reason he had startled the organist. Mr. Bradley apparently still failed to recognize him, for he gazed at him as if at an apparition from the grave. “Who are you?” he asked, paying no heed to his scattered music. “The boy you met in the lane. Grif Weston.” Mr. Bradley flushed. He seemed relieved, but with his relief he suddenly grew angry. “What do you mean by coming in like that? How did you get in, to begin with? Didn’t I lock the door?” “The door wasn’t locked,” explained Grif apologetically. “It was even a little open; and I thought you wouldn’t mind.” “Wouldn’t mind! As if anybody wouldn’t mind. You ought to have more sense!... Well, well,” he added, his manner growing gentler, “I suppose my nerves must be a little out of order.” “I’m very sorry,” said Grif penitently. “I won’t come again.” The organist shook his head impatiently. “I don’t object to your coming: it’s not that. You don’t seem to understand. You can come as often as you like so long as I know you’re there. Make a noise――rattle at the door――stamp your feet――don’t creep up behind me like a ghost.” His voice altered again, became almost confidential. “The fact is, something very strange occurred in this church――to me――only last night.” “Were you here last night?” asked Grif, a sudden curiosity overcoming his natural reserve. “It’s awfully queer, because I wondered if you were?” Mr. Bradley regarded him with reawakened suspicion. “Wondered if I was here! What did you know about it?” he asked sharply. “Aunt Caroline told me that you sometimes came at night to play, and just before I got into bed――very late――I began to think that perhaps you were there.” “Well I was. And what’s more, I saw a ghost.” “A real ghost?” Grif whispered, awestruck.