Parson Jack walked home with a volume of Gilbert’s Survey and another of the Parochial History of Cornwall under his arm, and Parker’s Glossary in his skirt pocket.  He began that evening with the Parochial History, article “Langona,” and smoked his pipe over it till midnight in a sort of rapture it would be hard to analyse.  In fact, no doubt it was made up of that childish delight which most men feel on reading in print what they know perfectly well already.  “The eastern end of the north aisle is used as a vestry, and the eastern end of the south aisle is impropriated to the church-warden’s use.”  Yes, that was right.  And the inscription on the one marble tablet was correctly given, and the legend over the south porch:  “Ego sum Janua, per me qui intrabit Servabitur” But the delight of recognition was mixed with that of discovery.  The lower part of the tower was Early English, the upper Perpendicular (a pause here, and a reference to Parker); the nave, too, Perpendicular.  Ah, then, it could only have been the upper part—­ the belfry—­which fell in and destroyed the nave.  What was the date?—­ 1412.  And they both had been rebuilt together—­on the call of Edmund Stafford, Bishop of Exeter—­in the August of that year.  He read on, the familiar at each step opening new bypaths into the unguessed.  But the delight of delights was to hug, while he read, his purpose to change all this story of ruin, to give it a new and happier chapter, to stand out eminent among the forgotten Vicars of Langona. . . .

The book slid from his knee to the floor with a crash.  He picked it up carefully, turned down the lamp, laughed to himself, and went off to bed, shivering but happy.

He awoke to fresh day-dreams.  Day-dreams filled the next week with visions of the church in all its destined beauty.  To be sure, they were extravagant enough, fantasies in which flying buttresses and flamboyant traceries waltzed around solid Norman and rigid Perpendicular, nightmares of undigested Parker.  But they kept Parson Jack happy.

He had not forgotten to answer Messrs. Cudmore’s letter, thanking them for their information, and adding that he proposed to pay a visit to Plymouth, and would call upon Major Bromham, with that gentleman’s leave, and discuss the legacy.  They replied that their client was just then in the north of Devon on a shooting-party, but would return to Plymouth by an afternoon train on the following Wednesday and grant Mr. Flood an interview.

The tone of this letter, as of the previous one, was unmistakably cold, but Parson Jack read nothing more in it than professional formality.  On the Wednesday, however, when he reached Plymouth, he presented himself at Messrs. Cudmore’s office, and was admitted to see the head of the firm, the manner of his reception began to puzzle him.

“Mr.—­ah—­Flood?” began Mr. Cudmore senior, with the faintest possible bow.  “Our client, Major Bromham, is not returning until late this afternoon—­by the four-forty train, in fact.  I myself dictated the letter in reply to yours, and fancied I had made it explicit.”