That afternoon, while Rosamund was in the garden, Mr. Esme Darlington was paying a little visit to his old friend and crony, the Dean of Welsley.  He had known the Dean—­well, almost ever since he could remember, and the Dean’s wife ever since she had married the Dean.  His delay in returning to town, caused by Rosamund’s attractive invitation, enabled him to spend an hour at the Deanery, where he had tea in the great drawing-room on the first floor, which looked out on the Green Court.  So pleasant were the Dean and his wife, so serenely flowed the conversation, that the hour lengthened out into two hours, and the Cathedral chimes announced that it was a quarter to seven before Mr. Darlington uncrumpled his length to go.  Even then Mrs. Dean begged him to stay on a little longer.

“It’s such a treat to hear all the interesting gossip of London,” she said, almost wistfully.  “When Dickie”—­Dickie was the Dean,—­“when Dickie was at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square, we knew everything that was going on, but here in Welsley—­well, I often feel rather rusty.”

Mr. Darlington paid the appropriate compliment, not in a banal way, and then mentioned that at half-past seven he was dining in Little Cloisters.

“That delightful creature Mrs. Dion Leith!” exclaimed Mrs. Dean.  “Dickie’s hopelessly in her toils.”

“My dear!” began the Dean, in pleased protestation.

But she interrupted him.

“I assure you,” she went on to Mr. Darlington, “he is always making excuses to see her.  She has even influenced him to appoint a new verger, a most extraordinary old person, called Thrush, with a nose!”

Mr. Darlington cocked an interrogative eyebrow.

“My darling!” said the Dean.  “He’s a good old man, very deserving, and has recently taken the pledge.”

“He’s a modified teetotaler!” said his wife to Mr. Darlington, patting her husband’s arm.  “You see what Dickie’s coming to.  If it goes on he will soon be a modified Dean.”

It was past seven when they finished talking about Rosamund and Dion, when Mr. Darlington at length tore himself delicately away from their delightful company, and, warmly wrapped in an overcoat lined with unostentatious sable, set out on the short walk to Canon Wilton’s house.  To reach the Canon’s house he had to pass through the Dark Entry and skirt the garden wall of Little Cloisters.

Now, as he came out of the Dark Entry and stepped into the passage-way, which led by the wall and the old house into the great open space of green lawns and elm trees round which the dwellings of the canons showed their lighted windows to the darkness of the November evening, he was stopped by a terrible sound.  It came to him from the garden of Little Cloisters.  It was short, sharp and piercing, so piercing that for an instant he felt as if literally it had torn the flesh of his body.  He had never before heard any sound at all like it; but, when he was able to