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'I expect it has,' Klitch said gravely.

'I hate to leave that with you. May I come in and look at it sometimes?'

'Why, of course.'

'I'll buy it back from you in no time. You'll see.' He shook hands and Klitch was astonished at their soft pudginess. 'Good night. Many thanks.' He picked up his shabby bag and went out.

Klitch looked, from the open door, after him. There was no sign of him. He had been swallowed up as though he had never been. A thin, vaporous mist had come up, but above it stars shone out and the Cathedral, like a black ship, sailed against the pale sky.

'That's a rum bloke,' Klitch thought. 'Never met a rummer.'

He looked at the Cathedral. Empty now and silent. Not a soul there. He wondered sometimes what it felt at night. Did the spirits of the old priests and warriors and monks come out from their tombs? He had thought sometimes that he would invade that silence. What would he discover? A foolish, fantastic thought, but then he had for so long lived with old, discarded things, chairs and tables and pictures and suits of armour that seemed to him to have a life of their own. Well, if chairs and tables had, why not knights and bishops?