“No wonder at all,” remarked Mr. Chillingworth.  “There is nothing to take that I am aware of that would repay anybody the trouble of taking.”

“Indeed!”

“Not an article.  The pulpit, to be sure, is covered with faded velvet; but beyond that, and an old box, in which I believe nothing is left but some books, I think there is no temptation.”

“And that, Heaven knows, is little enough, then.”

“Come on,” said Henry.  “Be careful; there is nothing beneath the window, and the depth is about two feet.”

Thus guided, they all got fairly into the sacred edifice, and then Henry closed the window, and fastened it on the inside as he said,—­

“We have nothing to do now but to set to work opening a way into the vault, and I trust that Heaven will pardon me for thus desecrating the tomb of my ancestors, from a consideration of the object I have in view by so doing.”

“It does seem wrong thus to tamper with the secrets of the tomb,” remarked Mr. Marchdale.

“The secrets of a fiddlestick!” said the doctor.  “What secrets has the tomb I wonder?”

“Well, but, my dear sir—­”

“Nay, my dear sir, it is high time that death, which is, then, the inevitable fate of us all, should be regarded with more philosophic eyes than it is.  There are no secrets in the tomb but such as may well be endeavoured to be kept secret.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is one which very probably we shall find unpleasantly revealed.”

“Which is that?”

“The not over pleasant odour of decomposed animal remains—­beyond that I know of nothing of a secret nature that the tomb can show us.”

“Ah, your profession hardens you to such matters.”

“And a very good thing that it does, or else, if all men were to look upon a dead body as something almost too dreadful to look upon, and by far too horrible to touch, surgery would lose its value, and crime, in many instances of the most obnoxious character, would go unpunished.”

“If we have a light here,” said Henry, “we shall run the greatest chance in the world of being seen, for the church has many windows.”

“Do not have one, then, by any means,” said Mr. Chillingworth.  “A match held low down in the pew may enable us to open the vault.”

“That will be the only plan.”

Henry led them to the pew which belonged to his family, and in the floor of which was the trap door.

“When was it last opened?” inquired Marchdale.

“When my father died,” said Henry; “some ten months ago now, I should think.”

“The screws, then, have had ample time to fix themselves with fresh rust.”

“Here is one of my chemical matches,” said Mr. Chillingworth, as he suddenly irradiated the pew with a clear and beautiful flame, that lasted about a minute.

The heads of the screws were easily discernible, and the short time that the light lasted had enabled Henry to turn the key he had brought with him in the lock.