A short, indescribable noise broke the stillness.  Twyford started for a second, and then said, sharply: 

“Really, I don’t think it’s a suitable occasion for trying to frighten a child.”

“Who’s a child?” cried the indignant Summers, with a voice that had a crow, but also something of a crack in it.  “And who’s a funk, either?  Not me.”

“I will be silent, then,” said the other voice out of the darkness.  “But silence also makes and unmakes.”

The required silence remained unbroken for a long time until at last the clergyman said to Symon in a low voice: 

“I suppose it’s all right about air?”

“Oh, yes,” replied the other aloud; “there’s a fireplace and a chimney in the office just by the door.”

A bound and the noise of a falling chair told them that the irrepressible rising generation had once more thrown itself across the room.  They heard the ejaculation:  “A chimney!  Why, I’ll be—­” and the rest was lost in muffled, but exultant, cries.

The uncle called repeatedly and vainly, groped his way at last to the opening, and, peering up it, caught a glimpse of a disk of daylight, which seemed to suggest that the fugitive had vanished in safety.  Making his way back to the group by the glass case, he fell over the fallen chair and took a moment to collect himself again.  He had opened his mouth to speak to Symon, when he stopped, and suddenly found himself blinking in the full shock of the white light, and looking over the other man’s shoulder, he saw that the door was standing open.

“So they’ve got at us at last,” he observed to Symon.

The man in the black robe was leaning against the wall some yards away, with a smile carved on his face.

“Here comes Colonel Morris,” went on Twyford, still speaking to Symon.  “One of us will have to tell him how the light went out.  Will you?”

But Symon still said nothing.  He was standing as still as a statue, and looking steadily at the black velvet behind the glass screen.  He was looking at the black velvet because there was nothing else to look at.  St. Paul’s Penny was gone.

Colonel Morris entered the room with two new visitors; presumably two new sightseers delayed by the accident.  The foremost was a tall, fair, rather languid-looking man with a bald brow and a high-bridged nose; his companion was a younger man with light, curly hair and frank, and even innocent, eyes.  Symon scarcely seemed to hear the newcomers; it seemed almost as if he had not realized that the return of the light revealed his brooding attitude.  Then he started in a guilty fashion, and when he saw the elder of the two strangers, his pale face seemed to turn a shade paler.

“Why it’s Horne Fisher!” and then after a pause he said in a low voice, “I’m in the devil of a hole, Fisher.”

“There does seem a bit of a mystery to be cleared up,” observed the gentleman so addressed.