Lucas handed it back. "I envy you," he said.
"Dere is no need," Mr. Meyer responded, as he closed the cabinet. "'Enfy no man till he is dead,' said de old Kreek philosopher, and I am very much alife. Now come to de orkit house, and photokraph de Cypripedium Meyeri."
An hour later, after taking photographs of the rare exotic from every point of the compass, Mr. Lucas made his way to the landing-stage, and from thence he rowed thoughtfully across to Bournemouth.
On the following Monday night a boat with a solitary oarsman put off from the mainland, and after several changes of route was successfully beached on the south shore of St. George's Island. Under the protection of the trees its occupant—none other, indeed, than Mr. John Lucas—stealthily approached the Tuscan Villa, which stood out in bold relief in the vivid moonlight.
He gained the terrace, and, keeping as much as possible within the shadow of the balustrade and dogs, he crept to the fourth window, the one at which Mr. Meyer was sitting on the preceding Saturday.
There is no use disguising the fact any longer. Mr. Lucas was a burglar, and he now proceeded to act after the manner of his craft. After affixing some adhesive material to the pane, he began to cut out a square of the window. The glass was thick, so the process was long, but Mr. Lucas toiled at it with a patience and perseverance worthy of a better cause. Only once did he desist—to follow the suggestion of a sudden impulse, and try all the windows of the house. But each was fastened, and Mr. Lucas resumed his original labour.
It was fully an hour before he drew out the square of glass which enabled him to undo the catch inside. Then nearly as long passed before the removal of a second square at the foot allowed him to unscrew the bottom fastening.
The window was open at last, and Lucas stepped inside.
It was the second burglary of his life, and he reflected that so far all that had happened was greatly to the credit of his professional abilities. A moment afterwards he was chilled by the later thought that nothing in particular had happened so far, and that the possibilities of the near future were very great indeed.
With his stealthy entry into Mr. Meyer's villa the personality of that gentleman had suddenly oppressed him. At Bournemouth all that day, with the sun shining, and the band playing popular airs, Mr. Meyer had occurred to him merely as an eccentric German gentleman; but now, at something after midnight, in the deathly stillness of his villa, Mr. Lucas only remembered the Teuton's sharp, decisive utterances, his piercing glances, and his large general reputation for unpleasantness as an enemy. Perhaps it was the sight of Mr. Meyer's empty chair that had brought this train of thought to his mind. The big folio he had been reading was still at its side. Lucas flashed his electric pocket light on the open page. "Love's Labour's Lost" met his eyes. This struck him as ominous.