“It seems a sad history,” observed Mr. Grame as he turned away to enter the vestry.

John Cale did the honours of its mysteries; showing him the chest for the surplices; the cupboard let into the wall for the register-book; the place where candles and such-like stores were kept.  Mr. Grame opened a door at one end of the room and saw a square flagged place, containing grave-digging tools and the hanging ropes of the bell which called people to church.  Shutting the door again, he crossed to a door on the opposite side.  But that he could not open.

“What does this lead to?” he asked.  “It is locked.”

“It’s always kept locked, that door is, sir; and it’s a’most as much as my post is worth to open it,” said the clerk, his voice sinking to a mysterious whisper.  “It leads up to the chimes.”

“The chimes!” echoed the new parson in surprise.  “Do you mean to say this little country church can boast of chimes?”

John Cale nodded.  “Lovely, pleasant things they be to listen to, sir, but we’ve not heard ’em since the midnight when Miss Katherine died.  They play a tune called ‘The Bay of Biscay.’”

Selecting a key from the bunch that he carried in his hand, he opened the door, displaying a narrow staircase, unprotected as a ladder and nearly perpendicular.  At its top was another small door, evidently locked.

“Captain Monk had all this done when he put the chimes up,” remarked he.  “I sweep the dust off these stairs, once in three months or so, but otherwise the door’s not opened.  And that one,” nodding to the door above, “never.”

“But why?” asked the clergyman.  “If the chimes are there, and are, as you say, melodious, why do they not play?”

“Well, sir, I b’lieve there’s a bit of superstition at the bottom of it,” returned the clerk, not caring to explain too fully lest he should have to tell about Mr. West’s death, which might not be the thing to frighten a new Vicar with.  “A feeling has somehow got abroad in the parish (leastways with a many of its folk) that the putting-up of its bells brought ill-luck, and that whenever the chimes ring out some dreadful evil falls on the Monk family.”

“I never heard of such a thing,” exclaimed the Vicar, hardly knowing whether to laugh or lecture.  “The parish cannot be so ignorant as that!  How can the putting-up of chimes bring ill-luck?”

“Well, your reverence, I don’t know; the thing’s beyond me.  They were heard but three times, ringing in the new year at midnight, three years, one on top of t’other—­and each time some ill fell.”

“My good man—­and I am sure you are good—­you should know better,” remonstrated Mr. Grame.  “Captain Monk cannot, surely, give credence to this?”

“No, sir; but his sister up at the Hall does—­Mrs. Carradyne.  It’s said the Captain used to ridicule her finely for it; he’d fly into a passion whenever ’twas alluded to.  Captain Monk, as a brave seaman, is too bold to tolerate anything of the sort.  But he has never let the chimes play since his daughter died.  He was coming out from the death-scene at midnight, when the chimes broke forth the third year, and it’s said he can’t abear the sound of ’em since.”