IT was life-boat day in Greater London, and it was my privilege to help at a depot which was housed in one of London's famous churches. A busy day was coming to a close and the last collector had handed in her box. It only remained for the business of the depot to be wound up, and to this end I retired to a room below the church to balance my books in peace and quiet. The room was in the crypt.

My money was spread over a small table. One small light relieved the gloom. I felt like the miser of fiction, gloating over his buried hoards. I glanced down. " All that is mortal of " read the stone upon which I stood. I shuddered and looked round, to read that one " was laid to rest" just behind me. Then . . . What's that ? A movement, a soft footfall.

I hurried my money into the waiting bags, deciding that my accounts must be taken as read. The footfalls came nearer. The only door through which escape was possible opened, slowly, slowly. I looked with eyes which no longer saw clearly. A figure entered, its long black robe rustling. It ad- vanced slowly but deliberately towards me. Suddenly it spoke. " Nearly finished ? " asked the churchwarden.

" Yes, I am nearly finished," I replied; and I rather fancy the churchwarden wondered what I meant..