“By the way,” he continued, rising and going to the mantelpiece, “you may be interested to have a look at the so-called ‘waeful dagger.’  Young Jarnock was kind enough to present it to me, as a little memento of my adventure.”

He handed it ’round to us and whilst we examined it, stood silent before the fire, puffing meditatively at his pipe.

“Jarnock and I made the trap so that it won’t work,” he remarked after a few moments.  “I’ve got the dagger, as you see, and old Bellett’s getting about again, so that the whole business can be hushed up, decently.  All the same I fancy the Chapel will never lose its reputation as a dangerous place.  Should be pretty safe now to keep valuables in.”

“There’s two things you haven’t explained yet,” I said.  “What do you think caused the two clangey sounds when you were in the Chapel in the dark?  And do you believe the soft tready sounds were real, or only a fancy, with your being so worked up and tense?”

“Don’t know for certain about the clangs,” replied Carnacki.

“I’ve puzzled quite a bit about them.  I can only think that the spring which worked the post must have ‘given’ a trifle, slipped you know, in the catch.  If it did, under such a tension, it would make a bit of a ringing noise.  And a little sound goes a long way in the middle of the night when you’re thinking of ‘ghostesses.’  You can understand that—­eh?”

“Yes,” I agreed.  “And the other sounds?”

“Well, the same thing—­I mean the extraordinary quietness—­may help to explain these a bit.  They may have been some usual enough sound that would never have been noticed under ordinary conditions, or they may have been only fancy.  It is just impossible to say.  They were disgustingly real to me.  As for the slithery noise, I am pretty sure that one of the tripod legs of my camera must have slipped a few inches:  if it did so, it may easily have jolted the lens cap off the baseboard, which would account for that queer little tap which I heard directly after.”

“How do you account for the dagger being in its place above the altar when you first examined it that night?” I asked.  “How could it be there, when at that very moment it was set in the trap?”

“That was my mistake,” replied Carnacki.  “The dagger could not possibly have been in its sheath at the time, though I thought it was.  You see, the curious cross-hilted sheath gave the appearance of the complete weapon, as you can understand.  The hilt of the dagger protrudes very little above the continued portion of the sheath—­a most inconvenient arrangement for drawing quickly!” He nodded sagely at the lot of us and yawned, then glanced at the clock.

“Out you go!” he said, in friendly fashion, using the recognized formula.  “I want a sleep.”

We rose, shook him by the hand, and went out presently into the night and the quiet of the Embankment, and so to our homes.