In point of fact, Mr. Ketch had just arrived at that agreeable moment
which concluded the last chapter--the conviction that no other keys
were to be found, and that he and Jenkins were fast. The tone in which
he was making his sentiments known upon the calamity, was not a subdued
one.

"Shall I light you round, my lord?"

"By no means--by no means. I shall be up with Ketch in a minute. He
seems in a temper. Good night, Fordham."

"Good night to your lordship."

The servant went back to the deanery. The prelate groped his way round
to the west quadrangle.

"Are you closing, Ketch?"

Mr. Ketch started as if he had been shot, and his noise dropped to a
calm. Truth to say, his style of complaint had not been orthodox, or
exactly suitable to the ears of his bishop. He and Jenkins both
recognized the voice, and bowed low, dark though it was.

"What is the matter, Ketch? You are making enough noise."

"Matter, my lord!" groaned Ketch. "Here's matter enough to make a
saint--saving your lordship's presence--forget his prayers. We be
locked up in the cloisters."