When the last voluntary had been played, the reverend gentleman sat in his chair by the altar and watched the congregation filing out of the church.  A great many seemed to be departing, but it was impossible to tell as yet the number that remained.  Mr. Windle had been so very definite, so confident in his assertion of the number of communicants.  He looked at his watch.  The service had taken longer than usual.  He stood up before they had all gone and poured out the wine into the chalices.  From where he had been sitting it was impossible to see those sides of the church that formed the cross upon which the foundations had been laid, and so, though only a few people remained in the centre aisle, he felt no cause for uneasiness.  Mr. Windle had been well assured, and he ought to know.

It was when he stood waiting for the communicants to approach the altar and saw all the church empty itself into the chancel like a stream which has been dammed and is set free, that he realized his mistake.

There were not more than twenty people, and with his own willing and ready hands he had consecrated all the wine which he had poured out into the vessel in the vestry.  What was the meaning of it?  Why had Mr. Windle told him sixty, or more, when scarcely twenty attended?

He stood waiting in the vestry afterwards with the well-filled chalice in his hand, tremulously anticipating Mr. Windle’s arrival.  His face was twitching spasmodically.  The unseen fingers were busy.  They never left him alone.

“It shall not be carried out of the church, but the priest and such others of the communicants as he shall call unto him shall, immediately after the blessing, reverently eat and drink the same.”

So it alluded in the rubric of the Book of Common Prayer to the leaving over of consecrated wine.  In the mind of the Rev. Samuel, Mr. Windle was that other communicant.

“What shall I do?” he began, directly the devout warden entered.

Mr. Windle was beaming with good nature.  He had just been talking to a lady—­the last to leave the church—­who had told him that he had read the lessons with great feeling; and, while he despised all emotion as sacrilegious in the precincts of God’s house of worship, he liked to be thought capable of it.

Seeing the cup in Mr. Bishop’s hand and the dismayed expression on that gentleman’s countenance, he smiled.

“This has to be—­be finished,” said the distraught clergyman.

“Ah, I’m sorry about that,” replied Mr. Windle, easily.  “Under ordinary circumstances, there would have been as many as I said; but I understand that a lot of people attended early Communion at the bishop’s service in Maidstone.  You see, it is not often that he comes, and they like to have his lordship.”

“But this is consecrated wine.”

“Ah—­well—­there’s not much, I suppose.  Is there?”

Mr. Windle looked casually into the chalice.  “Oh, there is a good deal.  What are you going to do?”