“The Vambraces are very odd people,” said Mrs Knapp. “Mrs Vambrace is a Catholic, I believe; I never knew that he was anything. Of course it is Mrs Bridgetower who wants the marriage to be in the Cathedral.”

“Then why has not Mrs Bridgetower said so to me?” asked the Dean. “I called on her only last week, and she did nothing but moan about Russia and her heart. She gave me to understand that unless the Russians change their tune at UN she will have a heart attack, presumably to spite them. She never breathed a word about her son’s marriage. And nobody has booked the Cathedral for the last day of November, which is presumably the day they mean. I will not be taken for granted in this irritating way.”

“Well, Jevon,” said his wife, “why don’t you call up Professor Vambrace and say so?”

“I shall call him after dinner,” said the Dean, though he did not relish the idea. He hated wrangles. But at eight o’clock precisely he was on the telephone.

“Good evening, Professor Vambrace, this is Dean Knapp of St Nicholas’ speaking. I hope you are well?”

“Good evening, Mr Knapp.”

“I saw the notice of your daughter’s engagement in The Bellman this evening, and I wished to speak to you about it.”

“You are under some misapprehension, Mr Knapp; my daughter is not engaged.”

“But her engagement is announced in this evening’s paper, and her wedding is said to be at St Nicholas’.”

At this point the Dean’s telephone clicked, and a steady buzzing told him that his communication with the Professor had been cut. So he patiently dialled the number again, and heard Vambrace’s voice.

“Who is it?”

“This is Dean Knapp of St Nicholas’ speaking. We were cut off.”

“Listen to me, whoever you are, I consider your joke to be in the worst of taste.”

“This is not a joke, Professor Vambrace. I am Dean Knapp—”

“Dean Humbug!” roared the Professor’s voice. “Do you suppose I am not aware, whoever you are, that this is Hallowe’en?” And the line began to buzz again.

The Dean was angry, but he was not one of those lucky men who are refreshed and stimulated by anger; it shook his self-confidence and upset his digestion and put him at a disadvantage with the world. He was ill-prepared, therefore, when the telephone rang a few minutes later and Professor Vambrace’s angry voice roared at him.

“So there was a notice of my daughter’s engagement in the paper!”

“Yes, of course, Professor Vambrace, that was what I called you about.”

“And what do you know about this outrage, eh?”

“I know nothing about it. I wished to know more.”

“What? Explain yourself.”

“That is what I intended to do, but you rudely rang off.”

“Never mind that. What do you know of this?”

“I saw the notice. I had heard nothing of any such wedding, and I called to make inquiries.”

“What about?”

“Well, I am Dean of St Nicholas’ and when a wedding is announced there I feel that I should be informed first.”

“The whole thing is an outrage!”

“To what do you refer, Professor Vambrace?”

“My daughter is not engaged to anyone. Least of all is she engaged to that yahoo of a Bridgetower.”

“Indeed. Then how do you explain the notice?”

“I don’t explain it! How do you explain it?”

“What have I to do with it?”

“Isn’t your church mentioned?”

“Yes, and that is what I called you about in the first place.”

“I have nothing to do with it, I tell you!”

“You need not shout, Professor.”

“I do well to shout. What do you know about this? Answer me! What do you know?”

“I only know that if you did not authorize the announcement, and it is dated for an impossible date, it looks as though the whole thing were a practical joke.”

“Joke? Joke! You dare to call this dastardly action a joke?”

“Professor, I must ask you to moderate your tone in speaking to me.”

There was an angry howl from the other end of the line, and the communication was cut for the third time, presumably because the Professor had slammed his telephone down in its cradle. Dean Knapp’s evening was ruined; for an hour he expostulated with his wife, whom he tried to cast in the role of Professor Vambrace, but she sustained it so poorly that he sank into silence and pretended to read a book. But all the while he was thinking up crushing retorts which he should have made when the opportunity served. There is nothing worse for the digestion than this, and before he went to bed the Dean took a glass of hot milk and two bismuth tablets.

He was in his first sleep when the telephone bell rang, and after a little prodding from his wife the Dean trudged downstairs to answer it, sleepily counting over in his mind those among his parishioners who were so near death that they might need him at this hour. But the voice on the telephone was tremulous with life and excitement.

“Mr Dean! Mr Dean!”

“Dean Knapp speaking. Who is it?”

“It is I, Mr Dean. Laura Pottinger.”

“What is the matter, Miss Pottinger?”

“Something terribly wrong is going on at the Cathedral, I know it. Lights are flashing on and off. And I am sure that I can hear the organ.”

“The organ, Miss Pottinger? Surely not.”

“Yes, the organ; I went out on my steps, and I am sure I heard it. And shouting. A dreadful, unholy sound.”

“Not from the Cathedral, Miss Pottinger. You must have been mistaken.”

“Indeed I am not mistaken. And I have called you so that you may take proper action at once.”

“What do you expect me to do, Miss Pottinger?”

“Do, Mr Dean? It is not for me to tell you what you should do. But if something is wrong at the Cathedral, do you not know what you should do?”

“But I am sure that you must have been deluded in some way, Miss Pottinger.”

“Deluded, Mr Dean? Do you suppose that because I am no longer young I do not know what I hear with my own ears? Do you mean to disregard this matter? Who knows what it may be—sacrilege of some sort, or robbery. There is a lot of fine plate in the Cathedral, Mr Dean, and it is not in the safe, as you know.”

This was a telling thrust. The Dean liked to have the Communion plate laid out at night, ready for the morning, and many of his parishioners, of whom Miss Pottinger was one, felt that it should be kept in the safe until it was needed. If anything were stolen, this quirk of the Dean’s would not be forgotten, so he said, “Very well, Miss Pottinger. I shall go over and see that everything is all right.”

“I shall meet you at the West Door.”

“No, no; you must not think of venturing out.”

“Yes, I shall. I want to know what is happening.”

“If there is anything amiss there might be trouble, and you must not be in any danger.”

“I am a soldier’s daughter, Mr Dean.”

“Miss Pottinger, as your priest, I forbid you to come to the Cathedral. Now please go back to bed and do not worry any more.” And with that the Dean hung up his telephone, hoping that he had quelled her. Miss Pottinger, who was over eighty, and very High in her religious opinions, rather liked to be ordered about by clergymen, and was always impressed by the word “priest”.

By this time the Dean was thoroughly awake, and cold and miserable. His stomach was churning within him and he wanted to go back to bed. But unless he went to the Cathedral he would never hear the end of it. The chances were that Miss Pottinger was mistaken, and his journey would be for nothing: but on the other hand there might be something wrong, and he would face—what? The Dean had been through the 1914-18 war and he felt that his brave days were over. All he wanted now was a quiet life. But the service of the Church was terribly unquiet, sometimes. So he went back to his bedroom, and put on a pullover, and his socks and shoes, and drew on his cassock over his pyjamas. His wife, who was accustomed to night calls, did not stir. He found the large cloak which he wore for winter funerals in the coat-cupboard in the hall, and set forth.