THE BURGLARS' CLUB

"'MAY I ASK WHAT YOU EXPECT TO FIND HERE?'"

([p. 4.])

THE
BURGLARS' CLUB

A ROMANCE IN TWELVE
CHRONICLES

BY
HENRY A. HERING
WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS
BY F. H. TOWNSEND

B. W. DODGE AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
1906

Copyright 1905, 1906,
BY
HENRY A. HERING.

THE TWELVE CHRONICLES.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

"'He's one of us,' the burglar explained. 'You see, we are men who have pretty well exhausted the pleasures of life. We've all been in the Army or the Navy, all of us are sportsmen, and we are bachelors; so there isn't much excitement left for us. We've started a Burglars' Club to help things on a bit. The entrance fee is a town burglary, the subject to be set by our president, and every other year each member has to keep up his subscription by a provincial line.'"

THE BURGLARS' CLUB:

A ROMANCE IN TWELVE CHRONICLES.

I.

SIR JOHN CARDER'S CIGARS.

Sir John Carder, head of the well-known firm of Carder and Co., merchants, of Manchester, sat in his warehouse. It was one o'clock in the morning. Since half-past eight he had been alone in the building; and there in his snug private office, before a cheery fire and beneath electric light, Sir John prepared to meet what he conceived to be his fate.

He was insolvent. For some time past he had suspected that this was the state of things. Now he was sure of it. The yearly balance sheet placed in his hand the previous day by his cashier, together with sundry figures from his own private ledger, placed the fact beyond the region of dispute. Because he felt himself unequal to the situation, Sir John had shut himself up in his office—and on the desk in front of him was a loaded revolver.

Sir John had strong antiquarian tastes. His bachelor home in Withington was a positive museum of curiosities, from Phœnician pottery down to files of English newspapers when the Georges were kings. In his office he kept more personal relics of bygone times, and he was now sorting out the drawers of a big bureau, full of them.

He had been severely trained in method by the most orderly of fathers, and had saved every written communication he had received since the age of seventeen. It is therefore quite understandable why his accumulation of letters was so large, and partially understandable how he came to have before him four bulky parcels of them, respectively endorsed with the names of Mary, Nell, Kitty, and Flip. The dates of these, be it at once understood, were not contemporaneous, though a careful investigator might have detected a little overlapping. The letters marked Flip, it ought also to be stated, came first in point of time.

Sir John lingered long over these bundles, and read many of the letters. They interested him greatly, and in their perusal he almost forgot the evening's ultimate objective. Connected with these particular letters was a batch of photographs, on which he gazed with tender reminiscence. Then there were other matters of more public character—a missive, for instance, from the Prime Minister, informing him that his Majesty intended to confer upon him the honour of knighthood, his Commission in the Volunteers, and some I.O.U.'s from a member of the House of Lords.

All these, and many others, Sir John threw on the desk in front, ready for the final holocaust. With the feeling of a true collector he had not the heart to destroy them singly.

Then, from another drawer, he drew forth his balance sheets for twenty years, and glanced them through with almost as much interest as he had felt for his letters. Once, it seemed, he had been worth close on a hundred thousand pounds. An infatuated belief in a South American concession, followed by a succession of lean years in trading, had frittered all this, and more, away.

While he was gazing gloomily at these recording figures the door gently opened, and a man stood on the threshold—a man with his coat buttoned tightly up to the neck, with his cap brought down over his eyes, a man with a lamp—in short, a burglar. Sir John stared at him dumbfounded. Then he glanced at the revolver, but it was out of reach. The burglar followed his look, and caught up the weapon.

Now thoroughly aroused, the knight indignantly exclaimed:

"You needn't add murder to your other crimes, my man."

"Sir," replied the burglar, "it would grieve me to have to anticipate your own intentions."

Sir John was struck, as much by the melodious voice of the burglar as by his answer. Nevertheless, in his most magisterial voice he demanded: "What are you doing here?"

"Watching an elderly gentleman in an interesting situation."

"You are impertinent!" flared Sir John.

"A thousand pardons. A burglar should, I believe, be merely brutal."

"May I ask what you expect to find here?" continued the merchant. "We rarely keep enough money on the premises to make it worth your while."

"Postage stamps?" insinuated the other.

Sir John ignored the suggestion. "Certainly not enough to make it worth your while. It may be a matter of penal servitude for you."

"You open up a wide philosophic question," said the burglar suavely. "What is worth your while in this world? 'Uneasy is the head that wears a crown.' You seem worried yourself, Sir John—going through your papers at this time o' night, with a loaded pistol by you."

The merchant was annoyed at the burglar's perspicacity, and he could not think of an effective rejoinder. His visitor advanced to the bureau. The photographs immediately engaged his attention. "Ha!" he exclaimed approvingly. "But it really isn't fair. One, two, three, four. Greedy man!"

"Will you kindly leave my private matters alone?" said the incensed knight. Then, with a sudden inspiration, he made a reckless dash for freedom by grabbing at the telephone handle, turning briskly, and shouting down the receiver, "Help! Thieves! Help!" But before he had called again the burglar had raised his revolver and had severed the connecting wire with a shot. "What an absurd idea," he said. "Why, the operator isn't awake yet."

Sir John sank back into his chair, feeling it was very likely that the burglar would adopt some extremely unpleasant form of revenge for the want of confidence he had just displayed. But his visitor did nothing of the sort. He also seated himself, and addressed the knight in grave reproof.

"If that's a sample of your best business method I'm surprised you've done so well in things," he said. Then without waiting for a reply, "Where do you keep your cigars?"

The merchant stretched out his hand and passed a box to him. The burglar rolled one knowingly between his fingers, then replaced it, and gave the box back.

"I don't care for tenpenny whiffs, Sir John. I want your real cigars—such as you keep for your most eminent visitors—such as you should have offered me, as a matter of course."

With a sigh Sir John rose, unlocked a cabinet, and produced a box marked "Topmann. Sublimes. Habana," which he handed to his visitor.

The burglar examined it carefully before he expressed his satisfaction. Then he took a cigar therefrom, inspected it with marked approval, lit it, and then dropped the box into a capacious pocket.

"Those are exceptionally fine cigars," the knight remarked, with a touch of resentment in his voice.

"I know it. I've come all the way from town to fetch 'em," the burglar answered.

Sir John was surprised. "It's a long way and a dangerous mission for such an object."

"Isn't it?" said the burglar, with provoking complacency.

"And may I ask how you come to know of them?" asked Sir John, whose curiosity was aroused.

"I don't mind telling you, since I've got them safe. You opened this box for a particular guest at the Chamber of Commerce dinner a month ago."

"Lord Ribston?"

"Yes; he spoke about them at the Burglars' Club. It was my turn, and here I am—don't you see?"

"The Burglars' Club!" exclaimed Sir John, in much surprise. "I've never heard of such an institution. And pray what has Lord Ribston, an ex-Cabinet Minister, to do with it?"

"He's one of us," the burglar explained. "You see, we are men who've pretty well exhausted the pleasures of life. We've all been in the Army or the Navy, all of us are sportsmen, and we are bachelors; so there isn't much excitement left for us. We've started a Burglars' Club to help things on a bit. The entrance fee is a town burglary, the subject to be set by our President, and every other year each member has to keep up his subscription by a provincial line. 'Sir John Carder's prime cigars by Wednesday,' was the item fixed for me at our club meeting last week, and I've got 'em easy," said the burglar, with much professional complacency.

"You astonish me," Sir John said. "In fact, I've never heard a more amazing thing in my life. But isn't it rather risky, telling me all this?"

"Not a bit. No one would believe you if you split on us, and you wouldn't find our club if you wanted to. But you wouldn't split. A man who smokes Topmann's Sublimes couldn't do such a thing if he tried."

Sir John acknowledged this speech with a bow. "But I'm greatly surprised Lord Ribston should belong to such a club," he said. "No offence to you intended," he added hastily, feeling that his remark was hardly polite.

"And no offence taken," said the burglar magnanimously. "Do you know, Sir John, there are a good many things going on in town that would be likely to astonish you a great deal more than this little club of ours if you only knew of 'em?" Then, after a moment's pause, "As you've helped me so nicely in this cigar business I shall be delighted to do you a good turn. Can I be of any use to you?"

In saying this the burglar's eyes travelled involuntarily to the pile of papers on the desk. Sir John's did the same, and he sighed.

"Well," he replied in an outburst of confidence that astonished himself, "I'm in a hole."

"I thought as much," said the other. "I've been in a good many myself in my time, so perhaps I can help you to get out."

The knight shook his head gloomily. "I don't think so. There's nothing for it but a bullet."

"Great Scott!" exclaimed the burglar. He plunged his hand into his pocket, and produced the box of cigars. "Try one of these," he said, offering them to Sir John. "I can recommend 'em for big occasions."

The merchant smiled sadly, but took the consolation offered. "You see," he explained, "it's my pay-day to-morrow. There's nine thousand pounds in cash wanted, and I've nothing towards it."

"Beastly awkward," said the burglar sympathetically. "I know what it feels like. Tell 'em to call again."

"I can't. If I don't pay I must file my petition."

"File your banker!" exclaimed the other. "Don't you do anything rash. There's many a man lived to regret ever dreaming of insolvency. I suppose you've realised all your assets?"

"Every one," said Sir John, "except things like these," and he pulled out the I.O.U.'s from the pile of papers.

The burglar looked at them. "Well?" he said inquiringly. "You've had these three years. Why the blazes haven't you got your money?"

"The Marquis of Chillingford hasn't got any money," replied the knight sorrowfully.

"I know he hasn't to-day, but he had yesterday, and he may have to-morrow. Why, man, he scooped in a cool ten thou' when Tadpole won the Derby."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Sir John.

"But I do. If you will lend money to lords, why the blazes don't you take in the sporting papers, and keep an eye on your friends? Tommy Chillingford is far too busy a man to remember these bits of paper, but I'm sure nothing would have pleased him more than to have paid you back your money if you'd suggested it at the time. He's had a run of confounded bad luck since then, but he'll bob up serenely one of these days, and you take my tip and get in that time. What else have you in this line?"

The knight opened a drawer, and therefrom produced a bundle of promissory notes and dishonoured cheques.

"What a philanthropist you've been in your day!" said the burglar admiringly, as he examined them. "I wish I'd known you earlier. Ah!" and he pulled out a draft. "What's wrong with this?"

"That's another impecunious peer," said Sir John. "He proposed me for the Carlton," he added apologetically.

"Then may I be impecunious," replied the burglar. "Dicky is a millionaire in South America."

"I've not come across his name in that light," said the merchant dubiously.

"He's changed it. Calls himself Thompson now. This thing is worth its face value, and that's two thousand pounds. Why, man, you must tender it at once for payment."

For a moment the knight's face brightened.

"But wait a bit," continued the burglar. "There's a six-years' limit for presentation, isn't there? This was due March 12th, 1897, and it's now—oh, Great Scott!—it's now March 18th, 1903! Too late by a week! Old man, you are unlucky! Two thousand solid sovereigns missed by a week, and you wantin' 'em all the time. It's beastly hard lines. Do have a light."

But Sir John was too limp to smoke. "A millionaire in South America!" he gasped. "Why, he went out at my request to see if a concession I have there was worth anything. He reported adversely, and I've heard nothing about him since then."

"What is your concession?"

From the pile in front the knight found an imposing-looking parchment, decorated with the signature of a President and the seal of a State. He handed it to the burglar, who read it through carefully. Then he laid it down.

"Sir John Carder," he said gravely, as a judge addressing a prisoner, "you are an unmitigated donkey. You must forgive the insult, but really the provocation is simply awful. I've lived in the Argentine, and if this concession of yours isn't the very one Mr. Thompson is now working for his own benefit I'm a double-dyed Dutchman."

Sir John gazed at him open-eyed. "I can't believe you," he said.

"Don't, if it hurts you," the burglar replied; "but I'll make a proposal, to show you I have no doubts about it myself. If you'll have me as equal partner with you in this concession matter, and leave me to manage it my own way, I'll take over your pay-day to-morrow, and be jolly well pleased with the bargain."

"You'll meet my payments to-morrow!" gasped Sir John, who for some little time had been wondering whether he were awake or asleep, or in a post-mortem delirium consequent on a revolver shot. "You'll meet my payments!"

Once more the burglar pulled out the cigar box. "Do have another," he said persuasively.

Sir John took one mechanically, but after trying in vain to light it he put it down.

"Oh, Dicky Thompson," soliloquised the burglar, "this explains a good deal. We all marvelled at your luck, for we knew you didn't deserve it. You once sold me a spavined mare. If this isn't retribution I don't know what is. Now, Carder, let's get to bed. You must give me a shakedown somewhere. We've to be very spry and early to-morrow. There's our partnership to fix up first thing, and I've to show these cigars at the Burglars' Club in the evening, and on Saturday I sail for South America with this precious document and a sharp legal practitioner. And I'll take your revolver with me in case the lawyer gets hoarse. Oh, I was forgetting. A telegram form, please. Where do you bank? County and City. Right. It's nine thousand you want, isn't it? Right again." The burglar filled up the form, counted his words, took the necessary stamps from his pocket book, and affixed them. "Now, we'll just drop this in the first pillar-box we meet, and by the time we've signed our partnership there'll be enough at the County and City to meet your payments."

Sir John looked at him admiringly. "Are there many as smart as you at the Burglars' Club?" he asked.

"Smarter," said the burglar modestly. "I'm about the clumsiest of the lot. Some day I'll tell you how Ribston stole the Bishop of Bister's crozier, and then you'll know why he is generally all there in the House. But come along now. All right; you close up and put the lights out. I'll take a short cut, and be waiting outside."

It was fully five minutes before Sir John had locked up his papers and had put on his coat. As he emerged from his warehouse door he was promptly collared by a policeman, while another seized him firmly from behind. A third was in possession of the handcuffed burglar, and an inspector stood by with a box of cigars under his arm.

"Pore old pard!" said the burglar, with ostentatious sympathy. "They've nabbed us both at larst."

"Now come along quietly, will you?" said the first policeman to the struggling knight.

"Leave go!" shouted his indignant charge. "I'm Sir John Carder."

The policeman laughed derisively, but something in the voice made the inspector flash his light on him.

"Sir John it is," he gasped.

The policemen released their hold, and gazed ruefully at their late prisoner.

"What do you mean by this, Markham?" demanded Sir John.

"Very sorry, sir. Hope you'll overlook it. We caught this chap red-handed, and he said he was working the job with a pal who was tidying things up a bit."

"Well, he was quite right. He is a friend of mine."

The inspector was more astonished than ever. "He came through one of the packing-room windows, Sir John," he expostulated, "and he had a boxful of cigars in his pocket."

"Not full, inspector," said the burglar, sadly. "I told you my friend would explain matters, but you wouldn't listen."

"Release him," said Sir John.

The inspector unlocked the handcuffs, saluted stiffly, turned his men round, and was marching off with them, when the burglar called out, "My cigars, please."

The inspector came back, handed the box over, saluted even more stiffly than before, and retired.

Sir John and the burglar watched the retreating escort out of sight.

"It's been a narrow squeak for both of us to-night," said the burglar reflectively.

"It has," replied Sir John.

Then they turned the corner together.

II.

THE BISHOP OF BISTER'S CROZIER.

The Bishop of Bister's dinner hour was eight o'clock. With unfailing regularity, when at the palace, he entered the drawing-room at 7.58 in order to collect his family and any guests. His annoyance may therefore be understood when at 7.55 on the night in question a servant brought him a card on which was written:

"Georgiowitch Kassala, Mush, L. Van, Khurd., craves audience."

"The gentleman is in the examination room, my lord," the servant added.

"A very awkward time for calling," said the Bishop, consulting his watch unnecessarily. Then, with a sigh, "Ask your mistress to keep dinner back ten minutes."

His lordship ambled to the examination room. A big man in a loose blue cassock-like garb rose at his entrance—a big-limbed, red-bearded man, with enormous eyebrows. He rose, bowed low, and sank on his knees, caught hold of the prelate's hand, caressed it gently, and finally kissed it. The Bishop was embarrassed. He preferred that sort of thing to be done before an audience, when he would play his part with the best of them, but with no spectators at all he felt uncomfortable.

"Rise," he said gently.

The red-bearded man obeyed. "I am—" he began. "I have come—ah, perhaps I had better show you my papers. I have a letter from my Patriarch." This in excellent English, with just a trace of a foreign accent.

From his capacious pocket he drew out a bundle of papers. He abstracted a letter therefrom, and handed it with evident pride to the Bishop.

It was apparently Greek, yet it was not the language his lordship of Bister had learnt at school and college. Here and there he saw a word he almost knew, yet the next one to it was a perfect stranger. He glanced at the end. There was a big seal, an extraordinary date, an impossible name.

His visitor seemed to appreciate the position. "Our Patriarch is old," he said. "He is no longer facile to read. I sometimes have difficulty myself, though I know his writing well. May I read it to you?"

He did this with great fluency and emphasis; but the Bishop understood nothing, though occasionally he thought he caught the sound of a fleeting particle.

The letter was finished. "And this," said the reader, producing a blue document, "is more earthy." It was, being from Scotland Yard, informing all and sundry that the bearer, Georgiowitch Kassala, a Christian priest, was authorised to collect subscriptions for the church of Saint Barnabas at Mush, in Khurdistan.

"Ah!" said the Bishop, with perhaps a shade of disappointment in his voice. "I hope you have been successful."

"Your Grace, I have travelled far, and not without recompense. To all I have said, 'If you give me money it is well, but if you do not it is still well.' Some have replied, 'Then we'll leave it at that,' but many have responded. See—here is my subscription book. I have begged from Batoum to Bister. I have received money in fifteen different coinages, of which the English is the finest and difficultest. Perhaps my most interesting contribution is this—see, a kopeck from Lassitudino Hospidar, the heathen cook of a Bulgarian wind-jammer, in memory of his maternal uncle, who died from the bite of a mad dog at Varna. And now, being in Bister, I thought, although it is late, I will at once call upon his Grace the Bishop, whose fame has reached our little town of Mush, whose name is known by the deep waters of Van."

His lordship sighed. The west end of his cathedral was sinking below the surface. At the present rate of subsidence the Dean had calculated that only the gargoyles would be above ground in the year 3000. This had to be stopped. There was a matter of underpinning for a start, but it costs money to underpin the west end of a cathedral. And all the while the usual subscription lists had to be headed from the Palace, and there was more than the usual depression in agriculture. The Bishop felt that it was a singularly inappropriate moment to contribute to a church in Khurdistan, yet it would not do to discount his own fair fame in that far distant land. He must think the matter over. Meantime he would offer his guest such hospitality as would compensate for the smallness of his contribution.

"My friend," he said, "your Patriarch shall not appeal to me in vain, although, as you may well believe, I have many calls upon my purse. But we will speak again of this. You will, of course, spend the night under my roof, and now, if you will join us at dinner I shall be very pleased."

The priest's face broke into smiles. "You are most kind," he replied. "I shall be glad." Then he glanced doubtfully from the Bishop's evening dress to his own raiment.

"Tut, tut," said his lordship pleasantly. "'A wash and a brush up,' as our saying is, and you'll be all right. Come along."

It was 8.15 when they entered the drawing-room. "My dear," said the Bishop appeasingly to his hungry wife, "I have brought a visitor from Mush, in Asia Minor. Mr.—er—Kassala—Mrs. Dacre—my daughters."

The visitor bowed low before the ladies. The Bishop thought he was going to kneel, so restrained him with a gentle hand. "Here," he went on, "is my chaplain, Mr. Jones, who will be greatly interested to hear of your work at home. And this," he concluded, "is our friend, Mr. Marmaduke Percy."

Then they moved to the dining-room.

At dinner Mr. Kassala conducted himself with ease, and spoke with great fluency on many matters; so much so that Mr. Marmaduke Percy, no doubt feeling that the Asiatic was monopolizing too much attention, asked him somewhat abruptly where he had acquired his excellent English.

"I had it from one of your countrymen, sir," replied Mr. Kassala pleasantly. "He was engaged in the smuggling of aniline dyes into Persia. Of course, I did not know his real occupation, or I should have had nothing to do with him. He pretended to import chocolates and acid drops and—barley-sugar, I think he called it—and such-like things; but they were all filled with aniline colours. In return for language lessons he got me to introduce him to the chief of the Persian frontier Customs, whom he bribed for his purposes. He made a large fortune before the Shah discovered that the colours of the Palace carpets were fading. My friend, the chief of the frontier Customs, was beheaded, and three dyers were put into plaster of Paris; but the Englishman escaped. His name was Benjamin Watts. Do you happen to know him, sir?"

The episcopal circle was justly shocked at this recital of their countryman's perfidy, and Mr. Percy warmly repudiated any knowledge of Mr. Watts.

The Bishop found his guest profoundly interesting, and he twice made notes in his pocket-book about Asiatic matters. The ladies left the room regretfully.

The chaplain, who was of an extremely bashful temperament, now put a question that had been trembling on his tongue all the dinner hour.

"Is not your village somewhere near Mount Ararat?"

"Certainly. We can see its snow-capped summit quite plainly from Mush. With a telescope we can even discern where the Ark rested after the Flood."

The Bishop looked at his guest reprovingly, for jokes on such matters grieved him deeply.

"I mean it, your Grace," said Kassala. "Surely you heard that the Ark itself was discovered about three months ago?"

"What?" exclaimed the Bishop and the chaplain together. "The Ark discovered?"

"Certainly," Kassala replied. "My venerable Patriarch had long suspected that remnants might be found preserved in the perpetual ice, so he sought the assistance of Professor Papineau, of Prague, who was travelling in the East. After months of—what do you call it?—pro—yes—prospecting—this gentleman discovered an enormous chunk of ice bearing some resemblance in outline to the object of their search. The only possible way to remove the ice was by blasting, and Professor Papineau inserted a charge of dynamite. A fatal mistake was made in the size of the charge, with the result that the whole enormous chunk was blown to atoms. Embedded in the fragments were found what were apparently portions of a leviathan ship, which my Patriarch and Professor Papineau regard as being the veritable vessel built by Noah. In no other way but by a universal deluge could it have got on Mount Ararat. But for the mistake made in the size of the charge the structure of the Ark might have been at any rate partially preserved. It was a terrible misfortune, only to be compared to the destruction of the Parthenon by the Venetians. Professor Papineau was for a long fortnight ill in bed with remorse. He reads a paper on the whole incident at the forthcoming Oriental Congress at Prague.

"But perhaps I have been indiscreet. Evidently the news has not reached your country, and the Professor may wish to be the first to give it to the world. He might resent my telling you, and my Patriarch would be grieved. I beg you to keep the information inviolate until you read of Professor Papineau's paper at Prague."

"MR. KASSALA HAD THEN THE PLEASURE OF INSPECTING THE CROZIER."

([p. 27.])

The Bishop and the chaplain nodded their assent. They seemed to have no words left in them. After breathing-space they both pulled out their pocket-books, and made some memoranda.

Later the conversation turned on vestments, and such matters. "Do you know, your Grace," said Mr. Kassala, "I have heard that you are the only bishop with a pastoral staff. Is that so?"

"No. It's the other way about. I'm the only bishop who hasn't one. I alone share with the archbishops the dignity of a crozier. The old crozier of the see is now kept in our chapter house. It was too old for use, so last year the ladies of the county presented me with a new one. If you like, I will show it you. Mr. Jones, I wonder if you would mind bringing my crozier from the library?"

Five minutes later the chaplain re-appeared, bringing a long case with him. This was duly opened, and Mr. Kassala had then the pleasure of inspecting the crozier presented by the ladies of the county. It was of ebony and gold, and was richly jewelled. It was a work of art well worth the encomiums bestowed upon it by the Asiatic.

"With your permission, your Grace," he said, "I should very much like to make a water-colour sketch of it in order to show to my Patriarch, who is deeply interested in such matters. He has a very fine crozier himself. Would you allow me?"

"By all means," said the Bishop.

"Thank you. I will do it before breakfast in the morning. I am an early riser. I suppose I may find it in this room?"

The Bishop nodded, but Mr. Percy intervened. "Allow me to take care of it over-night, Bishop. I don't think you ought to leave such a valuable article about. There is always the possibility of burglars. I am told there is a gang in the district just now."

The Bishop smiled good-humouredly. "I don't think we need consider that eventuality," he said. "But as you like. Now shall we join the ladies?"

Perhaps Mr. Kassala was hardly as entertaining in the drawing-room as he had previously been. He seemed a little preoccupied. At eleven the house party retired to rest, Mr. Percy carefully carrying to his room the case containing the crozier.

"HE SAW THE FIGURE PASS A WINDOW."

([p. 28.])

The Reverend Arthur Jones, his lordship's chaplain, was a light sleeper at best, and to-night the excitement of Mr. Kassala's visit kept him particularly wide-awake. His thoughts were with the unhappy Professor Papineau. He was wondering whether it would not be kind to send him a letter of sympathy, when his attention was attracted by a noise outside his room. He jumped out of bed and opened his door quietly. Someone was stealthily walking along the corridor. He saw the figure pass a window, and the moonlight fell upon Mr. Kassala. In great wonderment Mr. Jones followed. A turn of the passage brought the Asiatic to the head of the great staircase, and here he stopped so suddenly that the chaplain almost ran into him. For two minutes Mr. Kassala paused in a state of indecision. Then he advanced to a door, and gently opened it. Mr. Jones was paralysed with horror. It was the Bishop's bedroom. What could Mr. Kassala want there? Determined to save his beloved chief, Mr. Jones followed. As he entered the room there was an exclamation from the Bishop. Mr. Jones turned involuntarily. As he did so, Mr. Kassala collided with him. The Bishop sprang out of bed, and switched on the electric light. "Mr. Kassala!" he exclaimed. "And Mr. Jones! Pray, what is the meaning of this?"

"A thousand pardons, your Grace," said the Asiatic. "I have mistaken the room. I wanted Mr. Percy."

At this moment the next door opened, and Mr. Percy appeared.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"That's what I should like to know," said the prelate. "Mr. Kassala says he is looking for you."

"Indeed! What for?"

"I—er—was wondering if you had a camel-hair paint brush?" said Mr. Kassala.

"Well, you needn't wonder any longer. I haven't," Mr. Percy replied.

"And what do you want, Mr. Jones?" asked the Bishop sternly.

"Nothing, my lord, nothing," said the unhappy Jones. "I was only following Mr. Kassala."

"Then perhaps you'll follow him to bed," remarked the Bishop drily. "I hope I shall have a more satisfactory explanation in the morning."

Here, no doubt feeling that the situation was hardly in keeping with his dignity, the Bishop closed his door. Mr. Percy did the same, while Mr. Kassala and the shivering Jones returned to their corridor.

Mr. Kassala seemed rather amused than otherwise at the situation, but Mr. Jones was permeated with distress. "Cheer up," said the Asiatic, as he turned into his room. "If you will meddle in other people's business you're bound to suffer for it."

There was no sleep for the unhappy chaplain that night. He was in love with the eldest Miss Dacre, who, he had reason to believe, returned his affection, and he had determined to see her father on the subject on the morrow. But after the events of that night such an interview was highly inadvisable. Yet he had acted from the best and most creditable of motives. Only by hearsay was he acquainted with the habits and customs of the East, but he felt sure that honest Asiatics would not be found prowling about a palace in the midnight hours. What did Mr. Kassala want in the Bishop's room? Was it theft or—something worse? Was this self-styled priest the emissary of some Eastern organization bent upon destroying the flower of the Western hierarchy? Was he a Thug? Mr. Jones shuddered at the possibilities of the situation.

Ha! What was that? Again a creak outside. For a moment he listened breathlessly. Then he opened his door again. Good gracious! there was Mr. Kassala once more slinking down the corridor.

Hastily putting on his dressing-gown, Mr. Jones followed, with nerves strung to their highest tension. This time the Asiatic walked with no uncertain step. As he passed the Bishop's door the chaplain's heart gave a bound of relief. He stopped at Mr. Percy's door, and tapped gently. The light in the room was turned on, and the door opened by Mr. Percy himself. Mr. Kassala entered, and the door closed noiselessly behind him.

For some minutes Mr. Jones stared at the door in blank amazement. Then he turned round, and walked slowly back to his own room. In times of great perplexity he was accustomed to look for guidance to Mr. Paley's "Evidences." Mechanically he now took down the well-thumbed volume from its shelf, and opened it. He sat for many hours staring at the print without ever turning the page.

"Where is Mr. Kassala?" were the Bishop's first words on entering the breakfast-room the next morning. Although his lordship had betrayed no consciousness of his existence Mr. Jones felt that the inquiry was levelled at him.

"I do not know, my lord," he answered.

"John," said the Bishop to his butler, "will you inform Mr. Kassala that breakfast is on the table?"

In a few minutes John returned with the information that Mr. Kassala's room was empty, that his bed had not been slept in, and that nobody had seen him that morning.

"This is very singular," said his lordship. Then, after a pause, "One hardly likes to say so, but I must confess my confidence in the bona fides of Mr. Kassala has been shaken. You spoke about burglars last night, Marmaduke, in reference to my crozier, which seemed to have a peculiar attraction for Mr. Kassala. I hope it is safe."

"I put the case on the top of my wardrobe last night, and it was there five minutes ago," said Mr. Percy.

"I wonder what his object could be in coming here, and then leaving us in this extraordinary manner. Perhaps you can throw some light on that very peculiar incident in the middle of the night, Mr. Jones?"

"I heard a noise, my lord, and followed Mr. Kassala to see what he was doing. I haven't the faintest idea why he went into your room, unless it really was, as he said, that he had mistaken it for Mr. Percy's."

"But what should he want with Mr. Percy?" asked Mrs. Dacre.

"Perhaps Mr. Percy will answer that?" said the chaplain, with much meaning in his voice.

Mr. Percy fixed the eyeglass and looked coolly at the chaplain. "How on earth should I know, Jones?" he said. With this oracular remark he returned to his egg.

The chaplain was bursting with indignation at Mr. Percy's concealment of his midnight interview with Mr. Kassala. He longed to expose him, but shrank from the necessity of a painful scene.

"Mildred," said Mrs. Dacre suddenly, "let us look through the drawing-room silver at once. I hope the equestrian statuette of your father is safe."

While the ladies were ticking off their household gods, Mr. Percy went to his room to pack, and Mr. Jones followed.

"May I have his lordship's crozier?" asked the chaplain.

"Certainly. Here you are. But you do look unhappy, Jones! Whatever is the matter?"

Mr. Jones took the case without replying. "The key was in the lock last night," he remarked.

"Was it? Then it must have dropped out somewhere. Perhaps it's on the floor." But it did not seem to be there, although both Mr. Percy and the chaplain looked very carefully for it.

"Never mind," said the former, after five minutes' fruitless search. "It will probably turn up after I've gone. Remember, that I'll be responsible for any damage."

The chaplain was very pale. "Mr. Percy," he said, "I know of your midnight interview with Mr. Kassala."

Once more Mr. Percy fixed his monocle. "Do you, old man?" he replied. "Then I won't be the one to get you into trouble over it. You may rely on me. If you don't say anything, I shan't. Now good-bye. It'll take me all my time to get my things together. My man's ill, and I'm out of practice."

Mr. Jones left the room more bewildered than ever. His lordship, after leaving stringent instructions regarding Mr. Kassala, should he again appear, went by the noon train to town with Mr. Percy.

Mr. Jones appeared singularly distracted that day, and Miss Dacre gazed at him with much concern. He spent the evening alone with Paley, and about eleven o'clock, with firm determination on his face, he forced the lock of the crozier case. His worst fears were realised. In place of the crozier of ebony, gold, and jewels, the present of the ladies of the county, there reposed in the purple velvet lining a common bedroom poker!

At that very moment the Bishop of Bister's crozier lay on the table of a London mansion. Twelve men were gathered round it, complimenting their host upon it. Their host, by the way, was lately his Majesty's Secretary of State for Egypt. He was now attired in a long blue cassock-like garb, such as Asiatic priests may wear.

"By the burglary of the Bishop of Bister's crozier Lord Ribston's subscription has been paid for the next two years," said one of the men, making a cypher note in a book.

"Hear, hear! Bravo! Good for the Ribston Pippin!" was the general chorus.

"Gentlemen," said the man in the priestly garb, rising to his feet amidst applause, "I am proud once more to have been able to fulfil the mandate of our Club. With your permission, I will now pack up the bauble so that it may be returned by the midnight express in order to ease the mind of a most worthy man, his lordship's chaplain. But before I do so I wish to propose a new member—Mr. Marmaduke Percy. You will recollect that his name was brought forward twelve months or so ago, but he was not considered equal to the demands that are occasionally made upon the members of this honourable fraternity. I have reason to believe that we did Mr. Percy an injustice. Yesterday, at any rate, he saw through my disguise, and divined my purpose. He could easily have betrayed me. But he behaved in a sportsmanlike way, and for that reason I now propose that he should become one of us. Major Armytage is seconding. You will have an opportunity of voting for Mr. Percy at our next meeting. Is there any further business before us, Mr. Secretary?"

The Secretary consulted his book. "I note that Mr. Danby Travers' subscription is due," he said.

"Good old Danby! Pile it on! Make it thick enough!" was the varied cry.

"Gentlemen," said the Secretary, "we meet on Tuesday next, and Mr. Danby Travers will then be asked for the Black Pearl of Agni, the property of the Illingworths."

III.

THE LUCK OF THE ILLINGWORTHS.

Danby Travers was annoyed. He was one of the founders of the Burglars' Club. His entrance fee had been the temporary abstraction from the Crown Jewels of the Koh-i-noor itself. Two years ago he had kept up his membership by the burglary of the Duchess of Guiseley's emeralds; and now, by the unkindness of Fate or the simple cussedness of his committee, he could only renew his subscription by purloining the Black Pearl of Agni. It showed the folly of becoming the champion jewel burglar of the club.

Of course it was pure coincidence, for only four people knew that he was in love with Mary Illingworth. Mary knew it, because he had told her; Lord and Lady Illingworth, because they had been fatuously consulted in the matter; and he, Danby Travers, because of a stuffy, despairing feeling somewhere in his chest from the moment of awakening in the morning down to the last gleam of consciousness at night. But the Burglars' Club did not know it, nor did they know that Lord Illingworth had told him that in future he was not to cross the baronial threshold; and all because, despite his brilliant record in India and at Hurlingham, he, Danby Travers, was as poor as a chapel mouse.

Therefore he received the mandate of the club with something less than his usual urbanity. But reflection brought a Mephistophelean suggestion of comfort. He had been unable to rob Lord Illingworth of his fairest daughter. He would at any rate purloin his most valued jewel.

The Black Pearl of Agni was world-renowned. During the military operations in the Western Deccan in 1803 it had been looted by a certain Major Illingworth, of the Bengal Native Infantry, from a rich temple dedicated to the Hindoo God of Fire. From that day his fortunes had prospered amazingly. Promotion came for the asking; wealth by marriage and bequest. Influence, social and political, had followed, and a title. Succeeding generations had added to the score. Two descendants of the sepoy major had attained Cabinet rank, and the present peer had won the Derby. The Luck of the Illingworths had become proverbial.

"SHE . . . HAD SHOWN HIM THE SECRET OF ITS HIDING-PLACE."

([p. 40.])

The jewel was kept at Knowlesworth. Travers knew the place well. He had spent a fortnight there, and there he had made love to Mary Illingworth. She had shown him the Pearl; and, because he was to be her husband, had shown him the secret of its hiding-place. Little did he think at the time that the next occasion on which he entered that room would be as a burglar—an amateur one, it is true, but still a burglar.

No wonder that Danby Travers was annoyed. The only justification for his conduct that he could think of was that the temporary loss of the Pearl would probably have a beneficial effect on Lord Illingworth's character.

He had received the secretary's intimation on the Friday morning. He had to show the Pearl at the next meeting of the club—on the following Tuesday night. That gave him four days for the business.

Knowlesworth was sure to be full of visitors, for Lord Illingworth had succeeded a late Master of Balliol in entertaining the most distinguished week-end parties in the country. Travers turned to the Post, certain to find the list. Ah! here it was:

"Lord and Lady Illingworth are having a large party at Knowlesworth, entertaining the Bohemian Ambassador and Countess Polsky, the Duke of Strathpeffer, the Marquess and Marchioness of Bridlington, the Dean of Penzance, Professor Rawson, and others."

"What a crew!" thought Travers. "Wouldn't Strathpeffer be pleased if I came a cropper! I wonder he can go there after Mary's last refusal. I'll wait till they thin a bit. Some are sure to go on Monday, so Monday night is my best time for the job. Now for Bradshaw."

On the following Monday night, Travers took a second-class ticket at Charing Cross in order to minimise the chance of running against friends. From sheer curiosity he chose a compartment in which two singular-looking men were already seated. The weather was by no means cold, yet they were swathed in winter clothing. Thick mufflers were round their necks. Their faces were partly hidden by the wraps, and partly shaded by the broad brims of silk hats built about the time of the Crimean War. But their race was unmistakable—to Travers at least. They were Hindoos—the tall one probably a man of caste, the podgy person possibly a Baboo.

In his interest at coming across these strange people Travers forgot his ultimate objective. He settled himself in his corner, prepared either to join in conversation with, or merely to watch, his quaint fellow-travellers.

On his entrance they had turned their eyes upon him, but they had resumed their conversation. As the train got on its way they raised their voices, and, confident of not being understood, they spoke with absolute unrestraint. Travers, with knowledge derived from ten years' service in the Madras and Indian Staff Corps, was easily able to follow their talk.

"At last," said the tall man, as the train moved out of the station.

"At last," repeated the other. "Buck up. Now is the conclusion of your spacious quest."

"Say rather the beginning. So far it has been easy, despite the horror of mingling with these barbarians. To lose caste was foreseen, but now we enter upon the unknown."

"Nevertheless, I take the liberty of emphasising the necessity of bucking up. To-morrow you will be a thrice happy man, and I will weave a garland of marigolds for your honourable head. Gosh!" This as the train entered a tunnel with a hideous shriek. "It is a taste of the underworld," he added.

The tall man shuddered, and remained silent. As the train emerged his companion gave a very creditable imitation of the whistle and the tunnel.

The tall man smiled sadly.

"Ramma Lal," he said, "I envy you your merry disposition. It was in a good moment that I met thee in Bombay, baboo-jee. You have served me well in guiding me hither, and in enlivening me on the long journey."

"Your honour is pleased to be excessively gracious," said the Baboo with absurd complacency. "Indeed, my tip-top spirits have been of much service to myself and many other honourable gentlemen, and have been extraordinarily admired by English ladies." He pulled out his watch. "In the space of half an hour we shall have arrived at our long-intended destination."

"So soon? Show me the plan again to refresh my memory."

The Baboo produced a piece of paper, over which they bent their heads.

"Here is the railway station at which we shall dismount. This pink streak is the highway-road along which we shall travel, eventually reaching the big brass gates belonging to ancestral home. A little beyond is a diminutive wall, which we ascend and descend. Then we step across the park and round the lake. Here and here. This sepia mark is water. Now we are in the pleasure garden. This is the hinder part of the house. Here is the right wing. The fifth window in the second row. That is your bull's eye."

"Go on," said his companion, gloomily.

"Your honour will divest yourself of polished hat and other garments, which you will transfer to my care in summer house. Here, behold it, painted in vermilion. You will climb up to the window. Inferior but friendly servant has arranged that it shall open easily. Once in the room the deed is as good as accomplished. You know the hiding-place of the jewel."

Travers started. "The hiding-place of the jewel!"

"Yes," said the gloomy Hindoo; "I know it. But Krishna Bürkut knew it twenty-five years ago, and the Swâmi Râm Nâth knew it fifty years ago, and yet another Swâmi seventy-five years ago, but none of these restored it to the Temple of Agni. All failed in their quest, and never regained their caste. I too shall fail."

"Allow me to have the felicity of indicating at least one point of difference between your honour and gentlemen mentioned," replied the Baboo. "Your honour has intelligent assistant, while enumerated catalogue had not. Have the kindness to point out fly in our ointment. It is distinguished by its absence. The jewel is yours."

"Perish the jewel!" cried the other Hindoo in a sudden outburst of fury. "Why couldn't the Huzoor have left it alone, or have taken another jewel? Why should he have singled out the one above all others necessary to the happiness of Agni? And why should I, of all the priests of the Temple, be chosen to restore the sacred stone? Here, with five thousand miles of space between us, I declare to you, Ramma Lal, I do not fear the wrath of Agni. I call him humbug. I read Shakespeare. I write him an ass. I am doubtful even of Vishnu and Siva."

Travers paid no attention to Ramma Lal's reproachful reply. He was lost in amazement. Here, on the very night he had chosen for purloining the jewel, two other men were on the same errand. Stop. There was a reason for their date. They had mentioned twenty-five, fifty, and seventy-five years. It was evidently an anniversary. Every twenty-five years an attempt had to be made to restore the jewel to the Temple of Agni. Three attempts had already been made in vain, and now, on the hundredth anniversary of the theft by Major Illingworth, another attempt was in progress.

At any rate, he was forewarned. The house was a mile and a half away from the station by the main road on which the Hindoos were going. He knew a cut across the fields which shortened the distance by half a mile. He would gain ten minutes. In that ten minutes he had to obtain the Pearl.

The train pulled up at Knowlesworth station. The two Hindoos stepped out. Travers followed. He watched them start along the road; then he briskly cut across country.

The church clock struck eight as he reached the terrace in front of the hall. From the beginning he had matured only one plan of campaign. He knew the rules of the house, and he would take advantage of them. From eight to nine the men-servants were busy in the dining-room. Anyone could open the main outer door and enter. He might, of course, be seen, and in this eventuality Travers relied upon his being known to allay suspicion. He was in evening dress, and temporarily, at any rate, would strike a servant as being one of the guests.

The nominal dinner-hour was eight. It had been his intention to enter at 8.20 in order to allow for any delay either on the part of the kitchen or the guests. Dinners at Knowlesworth were notoriously unpunctual, and if he entered now he might run into the house party or meet stragglers on the stairs. He must wait. But the Hindoos were marching down the road. Each instant brought them nearer. In ten—no, in eight minutes—they would be in the garden. Yet he dare not enter.

He waited impatiently in the shadow of the great portico. It was now 8.10. He would make an attempt.

He slowly pushed back the heavy door, and entered the vestibule. This was cut off from the hall by big glass doors, and then by heavy curtains. Still more carefully he opened the inner door, and then quickly closed it again. Through the opening had come the sound of voices and laughter. They were gathered in the hall before the fire, waiting for the summons to dinner. So there he stayed, cursing the unpunctuality of the house, and unquietly reflecting that a casual remark as to the present state of the weather might lead to the glass door being opened and himself ignominiously disclosed.

And Mary would witness his humiliation. Nay, she might even be the innocent cause of it. She was within half a dozen yards of him now, separated only by some glass and a curtain. Yet he could not speak to her—could not even see her. Ah! that was her laugh. And that Strathpeffer's raucous voice. Hang Strathpeffer!

It was now 8.15. The Hindoos were in the garden. The situation was distracting. At any moment they might enter the Temple room.

Ah! there was the sound of movement within. The guests trooped past the door. Their voices died away. All was still.

It was nineteen minutes past eight. Travers hesitated no longer. He unbuttoned his top-coat, and, with cap in hand as though he were a guest just come in from a stroll before dinner, he opened the hall door.

No one was in sight. He crossed the hall, and stepped lightly up the stairs. At their head he passed a maid. She certainly took him for a guest.

He went straight down the great corridor, and then branched to the left. It was the third door ahead. He pulled back the panel as Mary had shown him, undid the bolt from within, and entered. The room was in darkness. He struck a light, half expecting to find the Hindoo disclosed. No, he was alone, and the Pearl still there.

It was a room without furniture. In the centre was a replica of the great idol of Agni at the temple from which the Pearl had been looted. The god sat there, smug, cross-legged, and hideous. The eyes fascinated the beholder. The left one was of marble; the right made of a stone worth a prince's ransom—the one known throughout the world as the Black Pearl of Agni. At the god's knees, their holders resting on the floor, were two gigantic candles. Travers lit them.

"A CRY OF DESPAIR ESCAPED HIM."

([p. 51.])

Then he stepped quickly to the idol, and sought the left hand of the god. He pressed the nail of the fourth finger. The god's right eyelid lifted, and the complete stone was disclosed. Travers quickly abstracted it, released the lid, and put the Pearl in his pocket.

His object was accomplished. But what was that? Listen.

There was a sound at the window. The Hindoo was there—beaten by half a minute.

Travers turned to the door. Then, impelled by an overpowering curiosity to see the end of the drama, he slipped to another window, and got behind the curtain.

There was a faint whistle from below. Hang it, what a fool he'd been! The Baboo had seen the momentary disarrangement of the curtain, and had observed his figure against the light, and now he was alarming his friend. But the latter heeded not. Perhaps he was too excited to understand, or even to hear him.

The sash was raised, the curtain pulled back, and the Hindoo stepped into the room. He was almost naked, and his bare limbs shone with a coating of oil. He took one step forward, and looked up eagerly into the idol's face. Then a cry of despair escaped him. The stone for which he had travelled five thousand miles was not there. He had lost his caste. It could never be regained, since he had failed in his quest. Never again could he see his native land. Under the crushing blow he sank, a comatose heap, on the floor.

The minutes passed, and Travers shifted uneasily behind the curtain. There were sounds from the garden—then approaching footsteps in the corridor. The door was flung open, and Lord Illingworth burst into the room, revolver in hand. The Duke of Strathpeffer followed with other guests, and some footmen. The Hindoo stared dully at them, but did not move. He was promptly seized.

"The Pearl—where is it?" demanded Lord Illingworth.

The Hindoo did not reply.

Lord Illingworth pointed to the empty socket, and repeated the question, but the Hindoo merely shook his head.

"Search him," said Lord Illingworth.

He was searched, but, of course, nothing was found.

Lord Illingworth stood over him.

"Where is the Pearl?" he thundered, but again the Hindoo shook his head.

"Bring in the other man," said Lord Illingworth.

The Baboo entered, limp and crestfallen, in charge of two stablemen. A boy carried a silk hat and some winter clothing.

"Ask him what he has done with the Pearl," said the peer.

Ramma Lal put the question.

"I have not got it. It was not here when I came."

The Baboo repeated this to Lord Illingworth.

"It is a lie," he replied. "It was here an hour ago. I saw it myself."

"The sahib knows that thou liest," said Ramma Lal to his friend. "Tell him a finer tale."

But the Hindoo only protested his innocence.

"What does he say?" demanded Lord Illingworth.

"He says," replied the facile Baboo, "that no sooner had he taken the Pearl than there was the flash of fire and much smoke. When it cleared away the stone had vanished. Doubtless Agni the god had come for his own."

Lord Illingworth blazed with fury.

"He has swallowed it," he said. "We shall have to cut him open."

Ramma Lal translated this terrific threat. The Hindoo gave a yell. Despair lent him strength. With a serpentine twist he slid from the grasp of one of his captors and knocked up the arm of the other. The window was still open. He sprang through it into the darkness of the night.

Lord Illingworth ran to the window, fired blindly, and then rushed from the room. The others followed. Only the Baboo, his two captors, and the boy with the clothes remained.

"Come along," said one of the grooms.

"Stay for one moment, I beseech you," said Ramma Lal, "and let me worship Agni the god."

"None of yer blarney," returned the man. But the other, who was of a romantic temperament, said, "Wot's the odds? Let the heathen do it if he wants."

"You see, gentlemen," said the Baboo eagerly, "it is my very last opportunity. I shall be lifelong imprisoned for the inauspicious event of this evening. It is positively my last appearance in the open. Let me worship Agni as I do in my own land. No Englishman has yet witnessed the entire ceremony. It shall not take long. I will compress my supplications. Five minutes will be ample dispensation."

The grooms looked at each other. Their curiosity settled the matter.

"We'll give you four minutes, so look sharp," said one.

"Thank you," replied Ramma Lal gratefully. "Agni will bless you for your beneficence."

The men released their hold. One closed the window, the other shut the door, and placed himself before it.

Ramma Lal took off his silk hat, muffler, and coat. He advanced to the idol and salaamed low three times. Then he raised his eyes and sang.

Travers knew the song. It was a ribald ditty of the bazaars, and it had as much to do with the worship of Agni as with the laws of gravitation.

He watched the Baboo with increasing interest. He had evidently some ulterior object in view, but what was it? Ah!

Ramma Lal had gradually approached the idol. Still singing, he had bowed his head till it had almost touched Agni's knees. Travers hardly saw the movement of the hands. Only an Oriental could have done it so swiftly. The two candles were suddenly extinguished, and the room was in absolute darkness.

With loud imprecations the two grooms rushed to where the Baboo had been—to collide with each other, and incidentally bring down the huge candlesticks. Then recovering, they dashed about the room in search of their prisoner, only to seize the boy who had the clothes. Finally one of them struck a light.

They were alone with the boy. The window was again wide open.

The men leaned out. There was no moon. The lights of the searchers flashed in the distance. They turned blankly to each other.

"There'll be pop to pay for this," said the boy, who was still suffering from rough usage in the dark. "You'll both jolly well get sacked."

"All your blamed fault for lis'nin' to his tommy rot," said the one man savagely to his companion.

"Who'd have thought he was so cunnin'?" rejoined the other. "Wot's the good of talkin' here? Come out an' look for him. He may have broke his neck," he added hopefully.

Again the lights flashed in the garden, and then gradually extended beyond. Travers waited until he was sure there was no one below. Then he emerged from his recess, and followed the Indians through the window. Leaving the park to the searchers, he kept to the main avenue, and soon gained the high road. A ten-mile walk brought him to Dorton junction, where he just missed the last train to town.

The sun was high when Danby Travers reached his rooms, and it was late in the afternoon when he awoke. The morning papers and his letters were at his bedside. He at once opened one of the former, curious to see if there was any reference to the events of the previous night.

Good heavens! What was this?

"BURGLARY AND FIRE AT KNOWLESWORTH.
THE ILLINGWORTH PEARL STOLEN.
THE HALL GUTTED.

"Knowlesworth Hall, the historic seat of the Illingworths, was last night the scene of two extraordinary events.

"Lord and Lady Illingworth were entertaining one of their famous week-end parties at dinner when a daring and successful attempt was made to steal the celebrated Pearl of Agni, the largest known black pearl in the world.

"A native Indian was found in a summer house in the Italian garden by a servant. As several determined attempts to steal the Pearl had already been made, the safety of this remarkable jewel was at once called into question. Lord Illingworth and his guests hurried to the Temple room, where the great Pearl was kept, and there found another native, who was promptly secured. The Pearl was missing, and the strictest search failed to bring it to light. It is believed that the thief has swallowed it, a fact which it is to be hoped that the X-rays will be able to demonstrate.

"Owing to gross mismanagement somewhere, the two natives escaped from custody, and it was midnight before they were again apprehended—one of them at Dorton, in a state of collapse from fear and cold; the other at Lingfield, defiant, but suffering from a sprained ankle. They will be brought up to-morrow at the Dorton Petty Sessions.

"Scarcely had Lord Illingworth and his guests retired to rest after an exciting evening than they were again alarmed, this time by an outbreak of fire in the Temple room. Its cause is unknown, but the flames, assisted by a high wind, spread with extraordinary rapidity, in spite of the prompt measures taken by the Hall fire brigade. Engines quickly arrived from Lingfield and Dorton, but the supply of water was totally inadequate, and it soon became evident that the whole structure was doomed. At the moment of telegraphing, the fire was raging furiously, but all sleeping in the house had been rescued without injury.

"In one night Lord Illingworth has lost his great family jewel and his ancestral seat. The 'Luck of the Illingworths' seems to have deserted him.

"It is a remarkable coincidence that a fire consumed the Hindu Temple of Agni the night that the Pearl was taken from it by Major Illingworth in 1803.

"Agni is the Hindu God of Fire."

"Thank Heaven, Mary's safe!" ejaculated Travers. "I hope she hasn't had a great fright." Then, after a pause, "And Ramma Lal caught, after all! He deserved a better fate. What an uncommon good thing I got the Pearl! If I hadn't taken it, the Indians would have been well on the way to Bombay with it by now, and if neither of us had taken it, the stone might have been burnt up. Would it, though? There mightn't have been a fire at all. Rummy notion that Agni should blaze the whole show in revenge for my desecration! It shan't interfere with my feelings of satisfaction. I'm a public benefactor—an Illingworth benefactor, anyway. I shall explain this to my lord at an early date. Hullo, what's this? A lawyer's letter. I can tell 'em by the smell. What's he threatenin' this time?"

But it wasn't a threat. It was simply an intimation that under the will of Colonel Thomas Archer, a distant relative lately deceased, he, Danby Travers, succeeded to the whole estate, a bequest made "on account of intrepidity shown in the recent Iráwadi campaign." The income therefrom, the solicitor added, was estimated at about £3,000 per annum, and he would be pleased to have an expression of Mr. Danby Travers's wishes with respect to the same.

£3,000 a year! Travers jumped out of bed and executed a series of gyrations. £3,000 a year! That meant Mary. But did it? It was a fortune to him, but how would Lord Illingworth view it? Well, if he didn't like it he needn't. Mary and he were now independent of everybody.

He made his way to the Burglars' meeting in a blur of happiness. He was rather late. Other men were there already, and they one and all congratulated him.

"Aren't you rather premature?" he asked. "You haven't seen the Pearl yet."

"Bother the Pearl," said Altamont. "We mean the title."

"What the deuce are you drivin' at?"

"Haven't you seen the papers?"

"Crowds of 'em, and lawyers' letters too. My head's buzzin' with 'em. What is it this time?"

"Your cousin tumbled down some stone steps in Vienna last night, and you are Lord Travers now—that's all!"

Danby sat down. This final stroke of fortune was too much for him.

"I can't say I'm sorry," he blurted at length. "Bertram wouldn't have been sorry if it had been me. And I'm glad about the title because of——. Here, I say, you fellows, what's come over the world since last night?"

"The Black Pearl of the Illingworths has changed hands, we hope," said the Secretary, who wanted to start the business of the evening.

"The Black Pearl has, and the Luck of the Illingworths went with it. They've had a fire, and I've got a bequest and a title. Perhaps you fellows'll be more superstitious in future. That's what brought my luck, anyway." Saying which, he produced the Black Pearl of Agni.

To his unbounded joy and immense surprise Lord Illingworth received the missing stone from London during the course of the next day.

The Indians had been remanded for a week, pending further inquiries, and as they had obviously not stolen the jewel after all, Lord Illingworth declined to prosecute, and they were released from custody. An unknown friend interested himself in the natives. One of them, a Baboo, was sent back to Bombay by an early steamer. The other, who refused to return to India, thanks to the same unknown benefactor, was put in the way of earning his living by teaching Hindustani. He has since gone over to the Mohammedan faith.

With repossession of the Pearl, good fortune came once more to the Illingworths. In making excavations consequent on rebuilding the Hall, a coal seam was discovered, which eventually doubled the family wealth.

The Black Pearl of Agni is now protected from burglars by many quaint electrical conceits. When the next anniversary comes round any Indian visitors will have a very lively time of it.

Later on in the year a marriage took place between Mary, younger daughter of Lord and Lady Illingworth, and Danby, ninth Baron Travers, a nobleman who had been mentioned in despatches in the Iráwadi campaign, and who was not unknown at Hurlingham. His clubs were the Marlborough, Brooks's, and the Burglars'.

IV.

THE FELLMONGERS' GOBLET.

"Mr. Septimus Toft,—Sir," the letter ran. "The 'tecs are on the scent. If you want any further information meet me at the Blue Lion, Monument, at nine-thirty to-morrow evening without fail.—Yours, etc., J. Driver."

Mr. Toft stared at the letter with much disgust and more alarm. It was certainly a regrettable communication for a commercial magnate, a magistrate, and a pillar of society to be obliged to attend to. It would have troubled him had it come before Bowker had absconded, but now it was much worse. Bowker would have shared the anxiety, and interviewed "J. Driver." He could have guessed on what particular scent the detectives were engaged, and his fertile ingenuity would have suggested an obvious way of circumventing them, whereas Mr. Toft's unaided vision saw none.

"Nine-thirty to-morrow evening." Mr. Toft smiled feebly at the humour of the situation. To-morrow evening at eight o'clock he was advertised to take the chair at a Young Men's Mutual Improvement meeting, and the gentleman who was to deliver the evening's lecture occupied the post of his Majesty's Solicitor-General. "He will probably have to prosecute me on behalf of the Crown," thought Toft; so he determined to propitiate him by special attention to his discourse and by frequent applause.

On the following evening Mr. Toft made his way to the Blue Lion. The lecture had not been a success as far as he was concerned. Try as he might, he could not concentrate his thoughts on the subject. He had applauded at wrong places. Once a titter from the audience had resulted, and the Solicitor-General had turned on him a look of pained surprise. In the agony of the moment he had pulled the table-cloth, and the glass of water thereon had upset, incidentally splashing the lecturer. The titter developed into a laugh, through which a legal glare had petrified him.

At nine o'clock the lecture was over. The Solicitor-General listened in silence to Mr. Toft's apologies, and then bowed coldly. Mr. Toft felt that he was lost indeed if it came to the Law Courts, and hurried away to his appointment in a state of feverish anxiety. He had come to the lecture in a soft wide-awake hat and the oldest top-coat in his wardrobe. He now donned a woollen muffler, and put on a pair of smoked glass spectacles. This was his idea of disguise. It was simple, but ineffective; for the highly-respectable mutton-chop whiskers, the weak mouth, and cut-away chin were as noticeable as ever. His most casual acquaintance would have recognised him, and would merely have concluded that he was engaged in something disreputable.

At the Monument he dismissed his cab, and made his way to the Blue Lion Inn. It was a fifth-rate house in a fourth-rate street. Mr. Toft had never been in such an unpleasant place in his life, and he groaned as he thought that the exigences of commerce had driven him there in his old age without even the excuse of foreign competition.

It was 9.45 when he entered the inn, and he hoped that the quarter-hour he was late would impress J. Driver with the conviction that he, Toft, was not at all particular about keeping the appointment. Apparently it did strike Mr. Driver in this way, for as the be-muffled and be-spectacled gentleman in the soft hat entered the tap-room a sarcastic voice loudly expressed the hope that he hadn't permanently injured his constitution by running. Mr. Toft was grieved at the publicity given to this remark. He sat down by the speaker, and murmured excuses; but Mr. Driver, if it were he, would have none of them. "When I says 9.30 I mean 9.30, and not 9.50, nor 9.60, nor yet 9.70. If my time won't suit you, yours won't suit me. I'm off," he said.

Mr. Toft was alarmed. "Sit down, please," he said, clutching the rising figure. "I'm sure I'm very sorry. I had made an engagement before your letter came, and I couldn't very well put it off. What will you have to drink?" he added adroitly.

"Gin and bitters," was the prompt response, and Mr. Driver sat down.

Mr. Toft now had leisure to take stock of his surroundings. J. Driver was a dark-haired man with a bold, clean-shaven chin. His voice was deep and emphatic, and his eye was piercing. He was broad and muscular, and would probably be a good boxer, thought Mr. Toft. He glanced at the drinkers at the other tables, but finding their eyes were fixed stolidly on him he looked elsewhere. He had noticed eyes and noses—that was all.

"Now to business," said Mr. Driver. "You know my name, and I know yours. That's where we're equal. You're in a beastly hole, and I aren't. That's where the difference comes in."

"I don't understand," said Mr. Toft. "In fact, I haven't the faintest idea what you are alluding to."

"Garn," said J. Driver, with a dig in the ribs that made him jump. "Garn! you old dodger. What about Government contracts?"

"What about them?" asked Mr. Toft, shrinking from his familiarity.

"What about them?" echoed the other. "What about work you never did, for which you've got false receipts? What about contracts executed with inferior stuff? What about commissions to officials, tips to men, and plunder all round?"

Mr. Toft paled at this catalogue of his business achievements. "You are misinformed," he said. "My firm does not do such things."

J. Driver thrust his tongue into his cheek. "Then how did you get your contracts, Septimus?" he asked.

"By honest competition in the open market," replied Mr. Toft loftily.

Mr. Driver laughed derisively. "Lord!" he said at last, "I wish I had your artless style. Stick to it, Mister, in the prisoner's dock. It may pull you through."

"I presume you haven't asked me here simply for the purpose of insulting me?" said Mr. Toft, with some dignity.

"What a man you are!" Mr. Driver replied, with unstinted admiration. "You must be a thought-reader, Septimus—a bloomin' thought-reader. You're quite right; I haven't. I've come for the loan of a key, and one of your visitin' cards."

"A key?" said Mr. Toft, relieved, though much surprised.

"The key of the plate chest of the Fellmongers' Company."

Mr. Toft raised his eyebrows. "You're joking," he said.

"Do I look like a joker?" replied his companion fiercely. "Do I look like a joker?" he repeated loudly, banging his fist on the table so that all turned their eyes in the direction of the noise. Mr. Toft implored him to restrain his feelings.

"Don't rouse 'em then!" said the man. "Have you got the key on you?"

"Er—yes," responded Mr. Toft.

"Then hand it over."

"My dear sir," began the unhappy Septimus.

"I'm not your dear anything," said the other; "so don't you pretend that I am. I'm as meek and pleasant as a cow to those that treat me fair and square, but when I'm irritated I'm a roarin' bull. Hand me the key."

"I can't."

"You can't. Right'o!" said Mr. Driver, rising. "At present the Admiralty only suspect. To-morrow they'll know, and you'll know too, Septimus Toft, when you get five years without the option of a fine."

"Please, please don't speak so loudly," begged Mr. Toft, beside himself with fears and anxieties. Then, to put on time whilst he collected his scattering thoughts, "What do you want to do with the key?"

"Wear it with my medals, of course," said the man sarcastically. "If you want further pertic'lers you won't get 'em, but I promise to return the key within forty-eight hours, and all your plate'll be there."

"It's a very extraordinary idea," said Mr. Toft incredulously.

"It is; and I'm a very extraordinary man, and you're a bloomin' ordinary one. Will you let me have the key and a visitin' card, or not?"

"If anyone asks how you got them what will you say?"

"Say I took 'em from you while you were asleep in an opium den, or when we met in a tunnel—any blessed thing you like."

Mr. Toft scarcely heard him. He was thinking over the pros and cons of the situation as rapidly as his nervous system would allow. He was Treasurer of the Fellmongers' Company, and he alone had the key of the plate safe. In the ordinary course of events he would be elected Prime Warden next year, but if there were any trouble about the plate he might not be. Better that, though, than a public exposure of his business methods. The key might have been stolen from him. Everyone lost keys now and then. Of course no one could think that the theft was to his advantage, and it would save him from all bother at the Admiralty—but would it?

"If I let you have the key," he asked, "how do I know that you won't come in a similar way again?"

"Give it up," said Mr. Driver. "Never was good at riddles, and I didn't come here to be asked 'em neither. What the blazes do I care about what you'll know or what you won't know? I know what I know, and that's enough to account for your hair bein' so thin on top. If you don't hand me that key without any more rottin' I'll just drop this in the first pillar-box I come across." He pulled out a fat blue envelope and flourished it in front of Mr. Toft's blinking eyes. It was addressed to the Financial Secretary of the Admiralty, and was marked on one side "Important," and on the other "Private and Urgent." There was an immense seal with the impression of a five-shilling piece.

"Your death-knell's inside," said Mr. Driver. "Hear it rattle," and he shook the envelope in Mr. Toft's ear. "But it wants a stamp, or the Government might not take it in. On such trifles do our destinies depend, Septimus. Have you got a stamp?" He put an anticipatory penny on the table.

Mr. Toft hesitated no longer. From one end of his watch-chain he detached a gold key, which he handed covertly to Driver.

"Now your visitin' card."

Mr. Toft produced one, and handed it over. "You'll give me that letter now," he pleaded.

J. Driver shook his head, tore up the packet, and put it into the fire. "Better there," he said oracularly. "Now, Toft, my boy, don't worry. You'll have that key back by Friday, and all your spoons'll be in the box. If you don't interfere you'll never hear of me again, and the Admiralty won't either; but if you take one step behind my back I'll do all I've threatened, and a lot more, and you'll be building Portland Breakwater on Christmas Day. By-bye, Septimus."

With this Mr. Driver rose, and stalked out of the room. After a modest interval Mr. Toft followed.

At 9 a.m. on the following morning the bell of the Fellmongers' Company pealed vigorously. The porter hurried to answer it, and found a lady on the doorstep. She was neatly dressed, and was strikingly handsome. She might be twenty-five years old. A boy carrying a portfolio and a strapped-up easel stood behind.

"Is this the Fellmongers' Hall?" she asked.

"It is, Miss."

"I want to know if you will be good enough to allow me to copy a painting you have on your walls? I do not know if it is necessary to have any written permission, or where to apply for it."

"The 'All is open to the public under my supervision," said the porter pompously. "Come inside, please."

"Thank you," replied the lady. "Put those things down, Johnnie. That's right. I'll let you know when to come for them. Good-morning."

"We don't often 'ave hartists 'ere, miss," remarked the porter, "and I sometimes thinks as pictures is wasted on gentlemen dinin' with City Companies. They ain't runnin' pertic'ler strong on hart just then. Which one is it you want?"

"I don't know the title," replied the artist, "but I shall know the picture when I see it. It's a portrait."

"P'raps Nicholas Tiffany," the porter suggested, "the first warden of the company, painted by 'Olbein. Born 1455. Lived to the ripe age of ninety-four, and died regretted by his sovereign and his country. His estates were seized by his creditors. Here he is, miss."

The man opened the door of the Livery Room, the walls of which were hung with many pictures. "This is Tiffany," he said, pointing to a disreputable-looking portrait.

The lady looked at it doubtfully. "The painting I want is the one nearest to the door of the plate room," she said.

"Then it's a good bit away from it, miss. The plate room is off the Banqueting 'All, and they are all windows on that side. The pictures are opposite."

"Dear me," said the lady. "How very stupidly I have been informed. Please show me the room."

The porter led the way, and threw open the door with pardonable pride. "The Banqueting 'All of the Honourable Company of Fellmongers!" he exclaimed. It was the famous hall in which heads of City Companies and ruling sovereigns are intermittently entertained. Down one wall were ranged portraits of eminent fellmongers. The other three were pierced by doors and windows.

"Which is the plate room?" asked the lady.

"This is the door of the plate room," the porter replied. "Anyone enterin' without authority, day or night, sets in action two peals of electric bells, and aut'matic'ly discharges a revolver shot through the sky-light."

"How very interesting!" the lady remarked. "Now I must find my picture." She looked round the room, and finally selected one.

"Jeremiah Crumpet," said the porter. "A haberdasher by birth, but eventually Junior Warden of our Company. Painted by Merillo. Never gettin' beyond pot'ooks 'imself, he founded the Company's Schools at Ashby de la Zouch."

"I'm sure that's the man," said the artist. "I'll bring my things in if I may. Is there a Mrs. ——? Jeckell, thank you. I should like to see her about some water for my paints."

"I'll tell you what, Maria," said Mr. Jeckell some hours later. "If she's a hartist I ought to be President of the Royal Academy. I never saw such drawin' in my life. She can't get his face square nohow. He's smilin' in the picture, but she's made him lockjawed an' moonstruck. She says if she can't get him right she'll have to turn him into a shipwreck. She must be what the papers call an himpressionist. She spoke twice about the plate room, so I've wheeled my chair into the 'all to keep my eye on her. I'll go back now and see what she's hup to."

Mr. Jeckell would have wondered less at her drawing if he could have seen the note the lady had referred to in his absence:

"An attempt will be made during the next three days to steal a cup from the plate chest at the Fellmongers' Hall. For certain reasons warning of this must not come to the authorities from without. Apply for permission to copy painting or to sketch interior, and watch. Should any other than the Company's servant enter the plate room suggest doubt as to his credentials, and do all you can to secure his arrest. Another agent will watch the premises from 5 p.m. to 9 a.m."

While Mr. Jeckell was on his way to his chair there came another peal from the front-entrance bell. A man in a bowler hat, and carrying a handbag, was outside.

"Mr. Toft has sent me for the Nelson Goblet," he said.

The porter was surprised. "Got a note?" he asked.

"The guv'ner gave me this," said the man, handing a card, "and the key."

"What does he want it for?" Mr. Jeckell asked.

"Got a big guzzle on at 'ome. Wants to cut an extra dash in centre-pieces."

Mr. Jeckell shook his head gravely, but made no remark. "Come along," he said shortly.

He led the way across the vestibule into the Banqueting Hall, where, behind her easel, a lady was evidently busy with her picture. He stopped at a door, which he unlocked, and both men passed through. Barely had they done so when the artist ran from behind her easel into the outer hall. "Mrs. Jeckell! Mrs. Jeckell!" she called out.

The porter's wife appeared.

"A man has gone into the plate room with your husband. I'm sure he is a thief. Warn Mr. Jeckell to get full authority before he does what this man wants."

"Gracious me!" cried the alarmed Mrs. Jeckell. "A thief! He may be murderin' Samuel!"

She rushed across to the plate room, and in a minute a storm of voices proceeded therefrom. Finally the three emerged, two hot and flurried, and the stranger, looking cool and determined, carrying a bag in one hand and a gold cup in the other. The porter hung on to his arm.

The artist was in front of the door. When she saw the man with the bag and cup she gave a little gasp of surprise, and a wave of colour overspread her face.

The man seemed equally astonished. "You!" he said at last.

"They're both thieves," whispered Mrs. Jeckell to her husband. "They're acting in collision. I'll shout for the perlice while you keep 'em." And she ran from the room.

"You are in danger," said the artist rapidly in French. "Put the cup in your pocket. Give me the bag, and knock the porter down."

The man obeyed with the promptitude of a soldier. Leaving Mr. Jeckell prostrate on the floor, they hurried from the Hall. At the street door was Mrs. Jeckell, wildly beckoning to a distant policeman.

"You take down there," said the artist. "Good-bye." She ran off in the opposite direction, still holding the bag, and dived down a side street.

Mrs. Jeckell grew frantically insistent to the policeman, who now came up. "Which one?" he puffed.

"The man. No, it's in the bag. Both of 'em," she cried.

At this moment her husband appeared at the door, with blood streaming from his nose. "They've killed Samuel," cried his horrified wife, running to him; but the policeman, though he wore the badge of St. John of Jerusalem on his arm, dashed down the street after the lady.

By the time he returned, after a fruitless pursuit, Mr. Jeckell's nose had stopped bleeding. "Did you hever?" said the porter. "What the blazes did she mean by first givin' the alarm and then aidin' and abettin'? And she looked so innercent-like, too. The first hartist as I've ever encouraged, and the larst. Whatever will Mr. Toft say, Maria? It's as much as my place is worth. After all these years of faithful service, too!"

But Mr. Toft was less demonstrative than might have been expected.

The next gathering of the Burglars' Club proved the most important in the history of the Club since its foundation. Every detail of it is firmly impressed on the memory of each member present; yet they never by any chance refer to that meeting. One and all would like to forget it—if they could.

It was held at Marmaduke Percy's rooms, his Grace of Dorchester, the President of the year, being in the chair.

The Secretary read the minutes, and concluded: "The business of the evening is the payment of an entrance fee—the Nelson Goblet of the Fellmongers' Company—by Martin Legendre Craven, fourth Baron Horton, a cadet member of the Club."

Lord Horton entered, bowed, and amidst general applause, placed on the table a richly-chased goblet of gold.

"Lord Horton's entrance fee being paid," said the President, "I now move that he be enrolled as a full member." Carried unanimously.

"My lord, you are one of us."

Lord Horton advanced to the table and looked round with calm deliberation. He was a notable man—the best amateur low comedian of his day, a traveller who had pressed far into Thibet, a diplomatist at the mention of whose name the Turk shifted uneasily in his seat and fixed his eyes despondently on the floor. He had won his V.C. in China. He had done many things.

"Your Grace, my lords and gentlemen," he said. "I thank you. In accordance with the usual custom of your Club I will explain how I have been able to fulfil my appointed duty. I received an intimation that the Nelson Goblet of the Fellmongers' Company was my entrance fee, and at once took steps to procure it. The matter was hardly difficult. A list of the Company showed me that the treasurer and plate-keeper was a certain Mr. Toft. The directory informed me that he was a steam-tug owner and a contractor to the Admiralty. Inquiry there told me he was under suspicion of bribery and corruption. I played on this little weakness of his, and, if I am not mistaken, I frightened him into the paths of virtue for the rest of his days. In return, he lent me the key of the plate safe of his Company. In broad daylight I proceeded for my booty. To my surprise, I found that I was expected. Someone had placed an agent on the spot to warn the custodian of the building of my intention. An alarm was raised. My lords and gentlemen, at whose instigation was that alarm raised?"

Lord Horton paused. Members looked at each other in mystified amazement. What on earth was he driving at? Was he waiting for a reply?

The silence grew painful. "Who instigated that alarm?" again the speaker asked.

A voice replied, "Presumably Mr. Toft."

"'Presumably Mr. Toft.' Sir Francis Marwood, I thank you for the suggestion. To continue. An alarm was raised by the agent of someone unknown. This agent was a lady who did not know that she was betraying an old friend. A minute later we were face to face. Instantly she pierced through my disguise, and by her presence of mind and fertility of resource alone did I escape."

"Like Sir Francis Marwood, I thought my betrayer was Mr. Toft, and I hastened to interview that gentleman. I found him in a state of extreme nervous prostration, but I left him convinced that it was not he who had betrayed me. So your suggestion, Sir Francis Marwood, is wrong. Can you give me another clue?"

Sir Francis did not reply. He looked uncomfortable at the attention bestowed upon his remark.

"My next step was to trace the lady who had helped me. That also was not difficult. I did not know she was in England, but being here I concluded that the Foreign Office would have her address. I was not mistaken. I found my friend, and learnt that she had her instructions to raise an alarm from—mark the name well, gentlemen—from Sir Francis Marwood, a member of this Club."

Had a live shell fallen into their midst it would probably have caused less consternation than did this announcement. There was an involuntary exclamation from everyone. For a moment all eyes were fixed on Sir Francis. Then each man drew himself up and stared blankly into space.

"The fame of your Club had reached me, and the novelty of its membership appealed to me." Again Lord Horton was speaking. "I felt that its risks would give a pleasing zest to civilian life, but I did not know that members were allowed to pay off old scores on each other through its medium. Last year I considered it my duty to advise against Sir Francis Marwood's appointment to Lisbon. This was his revenge. I was prepared to run any and all risks from without, but did not anticipate betrayal from within. Gentlemen, you have done me the honour to elect me as a member of your Club. I have paid my subscription. Now I beg to tender my resignation."

"No, no!" responded on all sides. Then cries of "Marwood! Marwood!"

"Order!" called the Duke. "Sir Francis Marwood, we are waiting."

Sir Francis rose. He was a man of some distinction in the diplomatic world.

"Gentlemen," he said, making a desperate attempt to speak his words lightly; "I really did not anticipate the matter would be taken up in this serious way. I do not dispute the accuracy of Lord Horton's statement, though I absolutely deny the motive he has ascribed to me. The reason of my action was simple. This Club was formed by us, not merely for passing time, but for keeping up our wits in degenerate days. To such a man as Lord Horton I felt that the purloining of the Fellmongers' Goblet must fall flat indeed. I have read the marvellous account of his adventures in Thibet, and I felt that some further spice of danger in this particular affair was necessary to make it worthy of Lord Horton's reputation. I took the liberty of supplying it, though perhaps in so doing I exceeded my rights. If so, I tender my regrets."

Sir Francis resumed his seat amidst loudly expressed disapprobation.

The President rose. "Gentlemen," he said, "you have heard Lord Horton's charge and Sir Francis Marwood's reply. Our Club can exist only as long as there is absolute good faith between its members, and I never dreamt of anything less than this being possible. Two duties are obviously mine. The first, Sir Francis Marwood, is to inform you that you are no longer a member of the Club. The second is to express our sincere regrets to Lord Horton, and our earnest hope that he will reconsider his resignation."

Sir Francis rose, pale and defiant. "So be it, Duke. Some day you may regret this. Horton, you and I have a big score to wipe out now." Then, with an ugly sneer, "It is hardly necessary to say that the F.O. will no longer require the services of a lady who cannot be depended upon; but Lord Horton's interest will no doubt find her another situation."

"Stop!" thundered Horton. "A lady has been mentioned. Two years ago this same lady saved my life in Russia. I asked her to marry me, and she refused, because, absurdly enough, she thought it would spoil my career. We did not meet again till yesterday. Marwood, instead of an injury, you did me the greatest service in the world.

"A week ago I was offered the post of British Agent at Kabul. It was a post after my own heart, but single-handed I should have failed in it. With this lady as my wife anything would be possible. Yesterday I begged her to reconsider her decision, and to help me in my career. I am proud to say she consented. We are to be married at once. Because bachelors alone are eligible as members of your Club, I am forced to confirm my resignation. Gentlemen, and Sir Francis Marwood, good-evening."

Thus did Lord Horton leave the Burglars' Club for married life, happiness, and his brilliant after-career.

V.

AN OUNCE OF RADIUM.

"It seems likely," said the President, with singular irrelevance, "that there will be a slump in radium."

"All South Africans are down," remarked Chillingford gloomily. "What in the world are you fellows laughing at?"

"It isn't a mine, Tommy. It's a horse. Won the Nobel Stakes," Marmaduke Percy called out.

"Order, gentlemen, if you please," continued the President. "I was remarking on the probability of a slump in radium. This is what to-day's paper says:

"'£896,000 was recently quoted as the market price for a single pound of radium. We suggest that it would be advisable for any holder to realise promptly, as Professor Blyth has discovered a method of obtaining this remarkable element from a substance other than pitch-blende. He has already isolated one ounce avoirdupois—at yesterday's price worth £56,000—which has been exhibited to a select number of scientists at his laboratory at Harlesden Green.

"'It seems likely that radium will no longer remain the toy of the conversazione, but that it will take its place among the great forces of civilisation. As a moderate-sized cube of it is sufficient to warm the dining-room of an average ratepayer for something like two thousand years, we shall no doubt find in this element the motive power of the future. The smoke nuisance of our great towns will disappear, ocean coaling stations will no longer be necessary, and incidentally about a million workers in the coal trade will be thrown out of employment.'

"This, gentlemen, is from the Daily Argus of to-day."

"Take your word for it, old man," "Carried nem. con.," and sundry other similar cries greeted the speaker.

The Duke waved his hand disparagingly. "Our secretary informs me," he went on, "that the subscription of Major Everett Anstruther is now due. It is suggested that he should produce this £56,000 worth of radium at our next meeting in payment thereof; although I believe that is something less than the value of membership of our Club."

That is why, on April 4th last, Major Everett Anstruther climbed the wall at the back of Professor Blyth's house at Harlesden.

His methods were those of the average burglar. He forced back the catch of one of the windows, drew up the sash, and stepped gently down from the window-sill into the room.

He was in the Professor's laboratory, a one-storeyed building joined to the dwelling-house by a corridor.

Anstruther turned on his portable electric light, and took his bearings. He was in an ordinary scientific laboratory, surrounded by induction coils, Crookes' tubes, balances, prismatic and optical instruments, and other and more complicated apparatus, the use of which he could not guess.

He walked slowly round, observing every corner. Where was the radium? He had read up the subject, and had learnt of its power to penetrate almost any substance, and now he turned off his light, hoping to see its rays.

There was nothing but absolute darkness.

He resolved to explore further. He opened the door gently. In front of him was the passage leading to the house. At his left another door—wide open.

He stopped before it in mute surprise and admiration.

On a table in the middle of the room was a luminous mass. The wall behind was aglow with a dancing, scintillating light. The rest of the room was in darkness, save for the dim light cast by the glowing mass and the phosphorescent screen behind.

It was the radium! How could the Professor leave it in so exposed a place? No doubt it was there that it had been exhibited to the scientists—but £56,000 worth left on a table for anyone to handle! It was absurd. Only a professor would have done it.

But it wasn't for him to grumble at the peculiar methods of learned men, and with a cheerful heart Anstruther stepped lightly into the room.

As he did so the door closed behind him with a click. The Major paused. "That's queer," he thought. "I didn't feel a draught, and I didn't touch the door."

Luckily the laboratory was isolated from the rest of the house, so the slight noise would not have been heard. He waited for some minutes to reassure himself; then he stepped back to the door and gently turned the knob, without result. He pushed; pulled and pushed; lifted and pushed; pressed down and pushed; tried in every way he could think of, but the door would not open.

He examined it carefully. Save for its knob its surface was absolutely plain. There was no keyhole or latch.

"Trapped, by Jove!" Anstruther exclaimed under his breath; and as his unpleasant situation dawned upon him he felt more uncomfortable than he had ever done in his life before. In fact, he felt physically ill.

"Confound it!" he thought. "It's deuced annoying, but it isn't as bad as all that. I don't know why it should bowl me over. Perhaps there's another way out of this den."

He walked round the room, feeling the wall for some shutter, even searching the floor for a trap-door. There was none. Save for a telephone and the table, he encountered nothing but plain surface.

"Of all the infernal holes to be in," he muttered. "Trapped like this, and all through my own carelessness." And then it occurred to him that he, Everett Anstruther, late a major of his Majesty's Horse Guards Blue, and now member of Parliament for Helston, would in a few hours be haled away to prison on a charge of attempted burglary. A pleasant situation, truly!

He felt ill—worse than before. His head ached, and his temples throbbed. What on earth did it mean? He had been in tight places before—once in Italy, when his life wasn't worth a moment's purchase, and then he was absolutely cool. But now——

"'YOU ARE A THIEF.'"

([p. 93.])

He started as if a pistol had been fired. A bell had rung behind him—an electric bell. It was the telephone bell, and it was still ringing. He watched it in dismay. It would rouse the whole house. Lift down the receiver, of course. He did so. The bell stopped. He put the receiver to his ear.

"Are you there?" a voice asked.

He did not reply. There was no need. While the receiver was off the bell wouldn't ring.

"If you don't answer I shall wake the house," came the voice, as if in answer to his thoughts.

The Major groaned inwardly. "Yes, I'm here," he replied.

"Good. How do you feel?"

"Oh, pretty tollollish," he answered. "Must be the doctor," he thought.

"What is your name?"

"Smithers," said the Major, with a sudden inspiration. "John Smithers."

"John Smithers," came the slow response. "Thank you. Your age last birthday?"

"It seems to me he has been examining Blyth's factotum for life insurance," thought the Major. "Lucky I caught on so well. But what an extraordinary idea to collect these statistics at something after midnight."

"Age last birthday, please," came down the wire again.

"Thirty-five," replied the Major. "Nothing like the truth in an emergency," he added to himself.

"John Smithers, aged thirty-five," was repeated. "Late occupation?"

"Soldier."

"Good. Very good. Late occupation, soldier. Any pension?"

"Yes."

"What a fool you are to risk it for a bit of radium."

The Major stepped back in sheer amazement. "What did you say?" he asked.

"Whatever made you risk your pension for a bit of radium?"

"Don't know what you mean."

"Then I'll explain. You are a thief, locked up in Professor Blyth's dark room. Isn't that so?"

"Who are you?" asked the Major in dismay.

"Professor Blyth."

"The devil!" Anstruther ejaculated.

"No, sir—Professor Blyth," came the response.

"Where are you?" asked the Major.

"I am in the room at the end of the corridor. I can observe the door of your room from where I stand, and I have a loaded revolver in my hand."

"What are you going to do?"

"That depends upon you. I can either send for the police, and give you in charge, or I can take scientific observations with your assistance—whichever you prefer."

"What do you mean by scientific observations?"

"You are locked up in a room twelve feet square with an ounce of radium."

"Well?"

"You are the first man in the world who has been locked up with an ounce of radium in a room twelve feet square, and your sensations would be of scientific value. If you care to describe them to me by telephone so long as you are conscious, I will not prosecute; otherwise I will place the matter in the hands of the police. Which do you prefer to do?"

"You are remarkably kind to offer me the alternative. I think I prefer to describe my sensations."

"Thank you. I am really very much obliged to you, John Smithers; but I ought to warn you beforehand that you will be put to great personal inconvenience. If you decide to try the experiment I shall not release you for some hours. I shall certainly not break off in the middle, however ill you feel."

"I have told you my choice," said Anstruther curtly.

"Right. Stop, though. What sort of a heart have you?"

"Strong."

"Good. You'll need it. Got a watch?"

"Yes."

"Can you take your pulse?"

"Yes."

"You are a real treasure, John Smithers. I'm glad you called. You've been fifteen minutes in the room. What is your pulse?"

"Seventy-three."

"Thank you. Can you read a clinical thermometer?"

"Yes."

"On the ledge of the telephone, where the paper is, you will find a tube. Got it? There's a thermometer inside. Please take it out, and read it carefully."

"Ninety-seven," said the Major.

"Thank you. I had no idea the army was so intelligent. How the papers do deceive us! Now put the thermometer under your tongue for two minutes, and then let me know what it registers."

"Ninety-nine," came the eventual response.

"Thank you. Horse or foot soldier, Smithers?"

"Horse."

"Horse. Thank you. Married?"

"No."

"Good again, Smithers. No one dependent upon you, I hope? Have you a headache?"

"It's enough to give me one, answering all your questions."

"Please describe symptoms, and not attempt to diagnose them. Have you a headache?"

"Yes."

"How's your heart?"

"Beats irregularly."

"Probably it will. Respiration?"

"It's rather choky here. Can't you let me have a breath of fresh air?"

"On no account, Smithers—on no account. I'm surprised at your suggesting such a thing. That will do for the present. I'll ring up again shortly, and I'm always here if you want me. You might take a little gentle exercise now."

The major hung up his receiver. The room seemed to be much lighter now. The radium glowed more brightly, and the scintillations on the wall behind had increased in intensity. He advanced towards the radium, and was immediately conscious that his discomfort increased. There was a smarting sensation on the front of his body, as if it were exposed to fire. His breathing became more difficult, his headache increased. He drew back to the wall, and the symptoms became less marked.

The bell rang again. "I ought to inform you, Smithers," said the voice, "that no good at all would result from your attempting to destroy the radium. As a matter of fact, if you broke or crushed it you would feel very much worse. The particles would fly all over, and you would inhale them. The symptoms would be intensely interesting if you would care to experience them, but I won't answer for the consequences. I just want you to understand that you can't possibly escape from this important new element when once you are imprisoned in a room with it, especially when the room is only twelve feet square."

The major did not reply. He hung up his receiver in silence.

At the other end of the telephone was Robert Blyth, F.R.S., D.Sc., etc., etc., a little red-haired man, whose researches on the Mutilation and Redintegration of Crystals are of world-renown.

He was a grave little man as a rule. Only when on the verge of some discovery, or when watching the successful progress of an experiment, did he wax cheerful. He did this now as he surveyed his notes of the report of John Smithers, a horse-soldier, in durance vile in the adjoining room.

"Pulse, 73; temperature, 99; heart, irregular. Good. Respiration difficult. Well, that's understandable. He's been in there thirty-one minutes. Thanks to a strong constitution, he's scarcely felt anything yet; but now he'll have trouble. John Smithers, you are going to have an exceedingly bad time of it. If you weren't a criminal I should hesitate in giving it you. As it is, you must suffer for the cause of science. Your experience will, no doubt, make you hesitate before you attempt another crime."

The professor tilted back his chair. "Strange," he mused, "how brain controls matter to the end. Here's John Smithers in the next room—a strong man admittedly—cribbed, cabined, and confined by a man he could probably crumple up with one hand. It was a stroke of genius to advertise my discovery in the papers. The criminal classes all read them now, and I thought I should probably attract a thief. I placed the radium in the middle of the room, and painted the wall behind with sulphide of zinc so that he couldn't possibly miss it. I easily constructed a threshold that closed the door when stepped upon. And then I had only to wait."

Here the bell rang. "Aha, Smithers, you are growing impatient. Well?"

"Are you a Christian?" came the reply.

"I hope so. Why?"

"Do you call this Christian conduct, to imprison me here with this infernal block of fire? I tell you, man, it's poisoning me. It's choking me. It's getting to my brain. If you are a Christian, come down and let me out."

"None of that hysterical sort of talk, Smithers," said the Professor sternly. "It's no good appealing for mercy. You are a thief, and you've got to be punished. Pull yourself together, and show what you are made of. You don't know what a lot of good your sufferings may do to humanity. I shall publish a full account of them in the British Medical Journal, and I am sure your family will be proud of you when they read it."

"I haven't got a family, and if I had they shouldn't read your jibberings. I tell you that if you don't let me out I shall do something desperate!"

"You can't," said the Professor. "There's nothing in the room except the radium and the telephone. If you knock the radium about you'll only make things worse for yourself, and if you damage the telephone you cut off your only link with the outside world. Be a man, Smithers. You've read of the Black Hole of Calcutta. The sufferings of the prisoners there were far worse than yours."

"You are a scientific vampire—a howling chemical bounder!" came the response.

"Tut, tut!" said the Professor serenely. "Do try and be calm. Take a stroll round. You might put the thermometer under your tongue again, and let me have the record. Nothing like filling your leisure moments with useful occupation."

"Poor beggar!" he said to himself. "He's just beginning to realise things. Five centigrammes of radium chloride killed eight mice in three days; how long will it take an ounce of radium bromide to render a strong man insensible? That's the problem in rule of three, and it's high time that someone worked out the answer.

"Well?" in reply to the bell.

"Temperature, 102; pulse, 100. Look here, Blyth, I'm going dotty. If you won't have pity on me as a Christian, I appeal to you as a family man. Your people wouldn't like to hear of this, I'm sure."

"Pulse 100," repeated the Professor. "Jerky, I suppose?"

"Did you hear my appeal to you as a family man?"

"Now, Smithers, you agreed to help me with my scientific observations, and I wish you'd keep to the letter of the agreement. Is your pulse jerky?"

"It is, and my hands are fairly itching to close round your throat, and my toes would like to kick you into eternity. Blyth, if I die, I'll haunt you and your family to the fifth generation. If you don't end up in a madhouse it won't be my fault. You scoundrel! You contemptible——"

Again the Professor hung up the receiver. "Strange," he soliloquised, "how mentally unbalanced these common men are! I can't imagine myself giving way to such ravings, whatever situation I was in. That's the advantage of birth and education. Yet, judging from the way in which Smithers expresses himself, he must be a man of very fair education. It's birth alone that tells in the long run," and the Professor stroked his stubble chin complacently.

The minutes passed. "He ought to be feeling it now. I'll ring him up." The Professor did so, but there was no reply. "He can't have collapsed already—a horse-soldier of thirty-five." Once more he rang. This time there was a slow response.

"Why didn't you come before?" said the Professor irately.

"I'm not your servant. I was thinking how I'd like to chop you into mincemeat, Blyth, and scatter you to the crows. My head's splitting—splitting, do you hear? I shall go dotty, looking at this infernal heap of fire. Those moving specks of light behind are all alive, Blyth. They're grinning at me. They're choking me. And there you sit like a scientific panjandrum with a little round button on top. And you call yourself a Christian and a respectable family man. You are a disgrace to your country. Come down and let me out. Send for the police. I don't care."

"Smithers," said the Professor, "I'm ashamed of you. A horse soldier going on like a nurserymaid! I shall not send for the police. You agreed to this experiment, and you've got to see it through. Please remember that. How's your pulse?"

"Blyth, it's 120! It's ticking like a clock. I believe it's going to strike."

"Keep cool, Smithers. Have your hands a bluish tinge?"

"They seem to be green."

"Green? Preposterous!"

"They may be blue really. I'm colour blind."

"Colour blind, Smithers, and a soldier? I'm surprised at you. I suspect they're only dirty. Do you feel a tingling at the finger tips?"

"Yes, and at my toe-tips too."

"Excellent! And your temperature?"

"One hundred and three. Man, I'm in a fever. I can't breathe. My head's on fire."

"You've only been in there an hour and a quarter. You're just beginning to get acclimatised, Smithers," said Professor Blyth callously, as he hung up the receiver.

"I wish Cantrip were here," he soliloquised. "'Deoxygenation of the blood corpuscles, followed by coma.' Bah! Radium acts on the nerve centres, and will ultimately produce paralysis. Cantrip is an ass. I always told him so."

The bell rang. "Blyth," said the prisoner, "listen to me. If you don't let me out, I'll swallow the radium. It can't make me feel worse, and it may finish me off quicker."

"Nonsense, Smithers, don't talk like a fool. It would only add to any—er—inconvenience you are now experiencing."

"I don't care what it would do. I——"

The Professor cut him off impatiently. "I'm disappointed in John Smithers," he thought. "He has no stamina. A man of low birth, evidently. A mere mountain of muscle. I know the species."

For a while he paced the room. Then he rang the bell, but this time there was no coherent response. The gasps sounded like, "Sit on her head, Blyth—keep her down, man. Whoa, mare!—mind that fencing—snow again—what ho! she bumps—all down the road and round the corner——"

"For heaven's sake, keep cool, Smithers," cried the Professor. "I want some more observations. Don't lose your head yet. You've all the night in front of you."

"Squadron, right wheel! Draw swords! Charge! Down with 'em! Boers, Japs, and Russians. Get home, lads! Give it 'em hot! Hurrah! I've killed a sergeant-major." Then indistinct mumbling and cackling laughter came through the telephone.

The Professor was disturbed. The end had come sooner than he had expected, for John Smithers had only been there an hour and a half, and he had calculated on a much longer time. But the symptoms were, on the whole, what he had expected. Green hands, though. What if the extremities were blue after all, and Cantrip right?

He rang the bell. There was no response. Once more, and yet again. Still there was silence.

The Professor hung up the receiver gloomily. "I'm afraid I shall have to go to him. He's unconscious, and continued exposure might be serious."

He went down the corridor, pulled back the bolts, and opened the door. The room was in absolute darkness. The Professor was intensely surprised. "What on earth has he done with the radium?" he thought. "Good heavens! Surely he hasn't really swallowed it!"

He stepped carefully across the threshold towards the electric pendant in the centre of the room. He started. The door had closed behind him with a loud click. He switched on the light, and peered round the floor for John Smithers. He was alone. Neither Smithers nor the radium was there!

At that moment the telephone rang.

"Are you there?" came a voice.

"Is that you, Smithers?" said the Professor, in blank amazement.

"It is, Blyth. How's your temperature? You'll find the thermometer on the telephone where you left it."

"You scoundrel! You consummate scoundrel! How did you get out?"

"For goodness' sake, Blyth, keep cool."

"If you don't release me immediately I'll hand you over to the police."

"You can't get 'em, old man. You can only talk to me."

"What have you done with the radium?"

"Got it here, Blyth; and I'm taking ever such a lot of care of it. I read all about it before I came, and I know just what it fancies. I brought a nice quarter-inch thick lead case, with a smaller one fixed inside, and the half-inch of intervening space made up with quicksilver. I've had the radium in the inner case most of the time, and it's as quiet as a lamb, nicely bottled up with its rays. In fact, I think it's gone to sleep. I've had quite a cheerful time with you to talk to, Blyth. You don't know how amusing you've been."

"Smithers," stuttered the Professor, "you are an insolent fellow as well as a consummate scoundrel."

"Tut, tut, Blyth! Do keep cool. Think how humanity will benefit from your present inconvenience. I'll look out for your article in the British Medical Journal, and I won't contradict it, though my pulse never went above seventy-three nor my temperature over ninety-nine, and wouldn't have done that if I'd bottled the radium at once instead of stopping to chatter with you. But you really ought to have kept a smarter look-out as you went in. I nearly brushed against you as I closed the door behind me. Well, bye-bye, old man, and many thanks for the radium. It will help my pension out nicely. I'll leave the receiver off the telephone, so that you don't disturb your family. I wouldn't worry, Blyth. Think of the Black Hole of Calcutta, and be a man!"

"'I NEARLY BRUSHED AGAINST YOU.'"

([p. 108.])

Before Anstruther had reached the laboratory the Professor was hammering on the wall, and shouting at the top of his voice. The Major hurried through the window, climbed the garden wall, and had found his bicycle before the prisoner was released. By the time that the police were informed, he was well on his way to town.

And that is how Major Everett Anstruther was able to renew his subscription to the Burglars' Club.

VI.

THE BUNYAN MS.

Anstruther sat down amidst vociferous applause.

"Gentlemen," said the Duke, "I think we may heartily congratulate Major Anstruther on the foresight and ingenuity displayed in renewing his subscription. I am sorry we cannot keep the radium as a memento, but, according to our rule, it has to be returned to Professor Blyth at once. This particular burglary has been so satisfactory that I think we may with advantage again turn to the daily Press for our next item. I read yesterday—— Let me see—where is it? I cut out the paragraph. Ah! here it is:—

"'Yet another priceless possession is leaving the Eastern hemisphere. Thirty pages of 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' all that is left of that immortal work in the handwriting of John Bunyan, has been waiting for offers at Messrs. Christie's rooms since November last. The highest bid from the United Kingdom was £45 10s., at which price the precious manuscript did not change hands. We now hear that £2,000 has been offered and accepted. The purchaser is Mr. John Pilgrim, the Logwood King, of New York. At the present rate of denudation it seems likely that fifty years hence the original of Magna Charta will be the only historical manuscript left in the country.'"

"Shame—shame!" greeted the reading of the paragraph.

"I am glad that you agree with the newspaper," said the Duke blandly. "I read that paragraph at breakfast yesterday, and since then I have learnt that Lord Roker's subscription is due. It seems to me more than a coincidence that these two matters should come together. It is a national disgrace that the manuscript of that remarkable, I believe unparalleled—er—effort of Mr. Bunyan should leave the country. For one night longer, at any rate, it must remain in the possession of Englishmen. My lord of Roker, you will kindly produce the Bunyan MS. at our next meeting, on the 23rd inst., in settlement of your subscription."

At 5 p.m. on Monday, April 18th last, a new arrival registered himself in the visitors' book at the Ilkley Hydropathic Establishment as James Roker, Jermyn Street, S.W. He was a good-looking, straight-built man of thirty or thereabouts. He was of an unobtrusive disposition, but was obviously well-informed, for in the smoke-room after dinner, when in a discussion on the internal resources of Japan, the date of Queen Anne's death came up, the new arrival gave it authoritatively as 1745, and so settled the matter.

The next morning brought letters addressed to Lord Roker. Five minutes after the arrival of the post the news spread, and at breakfast he was the cynosure of all eyes.

It was the first time that a nobleman had stayed at the Hydro, excepting the doubtful instance of Count Spiegeleisen in 1893, but to provide for possible emergencies the management had thoughtfully placed a Peerage on the bookshelves. This volume was now thoroughly investigated, and it was learnt that James, Lord Roker, was heir to the Earldom of Challoner, and that he was born on April 25th, 1870. His birthday obviously would occur the following week, and an enterprising lady suggested the propriety of arranging for a concert and a representation of Mrs. Jarley's waxworks in honour of the occasion.

The only person in the place who seemed annoyed by his arrival was Mr. John Pilgrim, a gentleman from New York.

"That's why he was so darned civil to me last night," he thought. "He knows how fond Fifth Avenue girls are of the British peerage, and he thinks he's only got to drop his handkerchief for Marion to pick it up. I call it a bit thick of him. I'm glad she's away for the day. I asked him to look round this evenin', so reckon I'll have to be civil; but I'll stand no nonsense. If he tries his sawder on me durin' the day I'll let him know."

There was no occasion—or, indeed, opportunity—to let Lord Roker know anything during the day, for he went to Rylstone the first thing after breakfast, and only re-appeared at dinner-time.

The toilettes of at least eighteen ladies were more elaborate than usual that evening, but they were lost on Lord Roker, who, after half an hour in the smoke-room, tapped on Mr. Pilgrim's door at 8.30.

"Good-evenin', my lord," said Mr. Pilgrim, with studied politeness. "Will you sit there? Cigar, sir? I can recommend these. I hope you had a pleasant day. How do you like the Hydro?"

"Thank you," said Lord Roker, as he took the Bock, and settled himself in the chair indicated. "I have been away in the country all day, so I haven't seen much of the Hydro yet. It seems all right. At any rate, you have got pretty snug quarters."

"Yes," said Mr. Pilgrim, with some complacency. "You see, I'm samplin' the British Isles, gettin' the best I can lay hands on, and am storin' my purchases here. This room is furnished with Heppendale an' Chipplewhite's masterpieces, collected by my daughter. Paintin's by Jones an' Rossetti. In the nex' cabin I've got those historical sundries I mentioned. But before we look at them I want you to give me some information."

"I shall be delighted to do so, if I have it."

"You have it, sir. I may as well explain what I want. I have come over to see Europe for the first time, but I wanter know more about it than Americans do as a gen'ral rule. I'm not content to visit Shakespeare's tomb an' see over Windsor Castle, and then think I've done the old country. I wanter know the people who inhabit her to-day, and you can't get to know them on board trains. That's why I've come to this Hydro. I get here what my secretary calls a symposium of the whole nation. So I'm studyin' people here with the idea of writin' a book on my return. What are your views on things in gen'ral, my lord?"

"My dear sir, that's a big order. But I may say I'm pretty well satisfied with things in general."

"You are an hereditary legislator, I believe," said Mr. Pilgrim.

"I may be some day," replied Lord Roker; "but at present I am not."

"Then what is your pertic'ler line in life?"

"If you mean business or profession, I have none. I'm a drone."

"A drone, sir! I'm delighted," exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim, with marked interest. Then, "Hello, Marion. Back again."

Roker turned, and there, framed in the doorway, was a living Romney picture—a radiant girl.

She came forward, the light playing on her red-brown hair.

"Lord Roker—my daughter," said Mr. Pilgrim.

The girl smiled and shook hands.

"I hope I'm not interrupting a very serious deliberation," she said, half hesitating.

"Indeed not," Lord Roker hastened to assure her, fearful lest this delectable vision should vanish.

She took the chair he offered.

"Well, what have you gotten at York?" inquired Mr. Pilgrim.

"You'd neither of you guess. Three grandfather's clocks."

"Three!" exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim. "Sheraton?" he added.

"No; just grandfather's clocks, and the dearest ones you ever saw."

"I could bet on that," said her father. "Are they genuine?"

"They are all dated, and Mr. Tullitt got pedigrees with each of them. One of them tells the moon, and one the day of the month. We shall have to hire an astrologer to regulate them and start them fair. Mr. Tullitt says he works best on board your railroad car, as noise suits him, so I shall fix the three clocks up in his den here to keep him happy. I reckon he'll know when it's lunch time, anyway. But what have you been doing, dad?"

"Makin' a few notes. At present I'm gettin' some valu'ble information. Lord Roker says he's a drone."

"Then I'm sure that Lord Roker does himself an injustice," she said, turning her smiling eyes upon him.

Roker shook his head.

"I toil not, neither do I spin."

"What do you do all the time?" she asked.

"I shoot and fish and hunt, and—er—once a year I see the Eton and Harrow cricket match."

"Gosh!" exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim. "He shoots and fishes and hunts, and once a year he goes to a cricket match."

"I said the Eton and Harrow match."

"Cert'nly. They must give it some name, I reckon. An' what do you do when you can't shoot, an' fish, an' hunt?"

"I add up my lists of kills and catches."

"This is downright interestin'," said Mr. Pilgrim. "What do you shoot an' hunt?"

"Birds and foxes."

"You seem to fancy small fry, sir. Did you never hanker after elephants?"

"Never. If I had a Maxim or a Gatling gun I might turn my attention to elephants, but I'm not going to buy one for the purpose."

Mr. Pilgrim looked hard at his guest, but Lord Roker bore the scrutiny impassibly.

"May I ask how you get your dollars?" the American continued.

"I have an income from my father. I don't mind telling you the amount—three thousand a year."

"Dollars?"

"No; pounds sterling."

"That's a tidy figure; but did you never wanter make that three thousand into thirty thousand?"

"I have suggested an increase to my father, but not such a big one as that. I asked him to make it five, but he would not. Some day perhaps he may, but thirty thousand is out of the question."

"I should suppose it was. I didn't mean an increase in your allowance. Did you never think of dippin' into trade, and increasin' it that way?"

"Never."

"Doesn't fancy elephants or trade," Mr. Pilgrim soliloquised. "Well, I reckon it takes all sorts of swallows to make a summer. Your father must have been in a good way of business."

"Not a bit of it. He inherited all he has from his ancestors."

"And how did the original ancestor make his pile?"

"In war, in the time of Edward III. He had the good fortune to capture a Royal Prince, two dukes, and a marshal of France. We are still living on the ransoms he got."

"I'd like to have known the original ancestor," said Mr. Pilgrim. "Reckon he'd have tackled elephants if he'd only got a pea-shooter."

"Father," broke in Miss Pilgrim, "I'm sure Lord Roker is tired of answering questions. Don't you think it's our turn to do something now?"

"That's so," said Mr. Pilgrim, who long since had forgotten his unkind suspicions of his visitor's intentions. "I hope I haven't worried you too much, my lord. It isn't every day that I get the chance of interviewin' a future hereditary legislator. I promised last night to show you some historical curiosities. We'll just go an' rout out my secretary, Tullitt, who has the keepin' of 'em."

They adjourned to the next room, and found Mr. Tullitt busy at his desk. He opened various cabinets and drawers for them.

"This," said Mr. Pilgrim, "is the original warrant signed by Henry VIII., consignin' his sixth wife to the Tower of London for beheadin' purposes. He had it penned in Latin to frighten her more. The writ was never served, as Henry changed his mind, an' decided to keep her on the throne.

"Here, sir, is my last purchase—thirty pages of 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' written by John Bunyan in Bedford Jail. I paid ten thousand dollars for that, an' I'd have paid twenty before missin' it. You see, my name is John Pilgrim, an' it seemed to me that I have a sort of claim on that book—a kind of relationship. Anyway, there's my two names on the title-page.

"Moreover, I've got on so well since I started life in a Chicago stock-yard that 'Pilgrim's Progress' would best describe my record. If it wasn't irreverent, I'd have called the autobiography I'm writin' by the name of that book; but as I can't do so, I've bought the original manuscript. You'll handle it carefully; it's not in first-rate repair."

Mr. Pilgrim showed his guest other historical treasures, and would have gone on indefinitely had not his daughter compassionately intervened. The rest of the evening was spent in conversation, and in listening to coon songs witchingly sung by Miss Pilgrim to her accompaniment on a harpsichord, once the property of Mrs. Thrale of Streatham, a friend of the immortal Dr. Johnson.

"Good-night, my lord," said Mr. Pilgrim at eleven o'clock. "P'raps you'll be kind enough to look round in the mornin'. I shall make a few notes of the information you've given me, and my secretary will lick them into shape."

"Right," said Lord Roker, with his eyes beyond Mr. Pilgrim, fixed on an enchanting vision of brown and gold, seated in the basket chair before the fire.

On the following morning Lord Roker found Mr. Pilgrim's secretary before a typewriter which he seemed to be working against time. A pile of correspondence lay around him. He finished the sheet on which he was engaged, and then, with a sigh of relief, he turned to his visitor.

"Mornin', my lord; I have this ready for you."

He handed a type-written sheet to Lord Roker, who sat down and read:

"Some day I may be an hereditary legislator. At present I'm a drone. I fish, shoot birds, and hunt foxes, and once a year I attend a cricket match. Birds are more suited to the bore of my gun than elephants. If I had a Maxim I might tackle elephants. I am in receipt of an income of three thousand pounds sterling a year from my father, who refuses to increase the amount. I am otherwise well satisfied with the universe.

"My record last year was:

"I've left space for the mortality returns, and any note you may wish to add," said the secretary courteously. "Kindly fill in the figures, and initial the sheet if you find it correct. Your name will not appear if Mr. Pilgrim makes use of the information."

Lord Roker referred to his pocket-book for statistics, and then inserted the figures required. The note he added was: "De mortuis nil nisi bonum."

"Good kills, all of 'em," he explained.

The secretary took the sheet and placed it methodically in a folio labelled "Britishers."

"Is Mr. Pilgrim anywhere about?" Lord Roker asked. "Or Miss Pilgrim?"

"I believe that Miss Pilgrim is in the grounds, but Mr. Pilgrim has gone across the moors in his motor to shed a tear at the residence of the late Charlotte Brontë. A wonderful man is the boss, my lord. It takes me all my time to file the information he gathers. It will be midnight before I have fixed Charlotte up."

"Your hours are long," said Lord Roker, sympathetically.

"They are; and they are getting longer. Your country is just waking up to the fact that John Pilgrim is here. We had a big mail to-day. Outside proper business there were twenty begging letters from tramps and prodigals, eighteen asking for subscriptions, and two which we could not decipher. Four town councils mixed us up with Andrew Carnegie and wrote demanding Free Libraries. I reply to them all."

"Then I won't trespass any longer on your time."

Mr. Tullitt pulled out his watch.

"Snakes!" he exclaimed. "I always have fifteen minutes' dumb-bell exercise now to keep me in form. Good-mornin', my lord." His visitor left him standing in position with his dumb-bells.

Now when Lord Roker turned in his chair and first saw Miss Marion Pilgrim he was confounded. When she spoke—and to her beauty there was added an infinite charm of frankness and joy of life—he fell hopelessly in love. Only once before had this happened to him, and, singularly enough, she also was an American—a dark-eyed Boston girl he met in Rome. He had been refused because his position and his prospects rendered the match an impossibility—to her father; for he was not at that time heir to an earldom. Since then he had gone unscathed through the perils of many seasons in many capitals, only to be finally routed while in pursuit of the commonplace profession of a burglar.

That he had aroused any interest in her heart he did not for a moment suppose, but perhaps there might be a remote chance of winning her. If there were, how could he imperil his hope of success by running the risks attendant on the burglary? If she could give him the slightest hope he would resign his membership of the Burglars' forthwith. It was ridiculous to have to rush matters, but he had to know his fate at once. He could not even put it off till to-morrow, for he knew she was going to Knaresborough for the day with her father.

He met her on the golf links. They played in a foursome in the morning. In the afternoon they had a round together.

She was in capital form. Her splendid health and energy were a delight to the eye. Perhaps it was owing to this distraction that he foozled some of his drives, and twice got badly bunkered. His play went steadily from bad to worse, and she won by three up and two to play.

"I don't think you were playing your best game," she said as they returned. "It strikes me that you were thinking about something else all the time."

"You are quite right. I never played worse, and I was thinking about something else."

"Something very serious, I reckon."

"Very."

"Is it anything I could help you in?"

"You are very kind, Miss Pilgrim. All day, and most of last night, I have been deliberating on an important step."

"What sort of a step?"

"Whether I ought not to resign my membership of a certain club."

"Is that all?"

"You see, I was one of the founders, and I like it. But sometimes the conditions of membership seem impossible. At any rate, I have felt them so since last evening."

"What are the conditions?"

"I can't tell you them all, but one is that you have to be a bachelor—a confirmed bachelor."

"Well, you are one, aren't you?" she asked gently.

"I don't know. At any rate, I may not always be. In fact, I——"

"Don't you be in a hurry to change," said Miss Pilgrim. "Don't imitate that king of yours. Judging from the document dad showed you, Henry the Eighth wanted to be a bachelor again, and then decided to remain a married man, all in one day. You Britishers are so variable."

"It may seem very absurd, Miss Pilgrim, but I have to make up my mind without delay. And you can help me in the matter. May I—dare I——"

"One minute, Lord Roker," she interrupted quickly. "You ought to be very careful before you think of changing your state. Teddy Robson waited twelve months before I promised to marry him."

"Teddy Robson!" exclaimed Lord Roker.

"Yes; this is his picture." She pulled a locket from her dress, and showed him the miniature of a nice, clean-looking lad. "He's the son of Josh. K. Robson, the Fustic King," she explained.

"Fustic?" repeated Lord Roker, with intense gloom.

"It's a wood that dyes yellow. Dad is the Logwood King, you know. Logwood dyes black. When I marry Teddy, the two firms will amalgamate, and we shall pretty well control the output of the West Indies."

"I see," said Lord Roker; "or, rather, I hear."

"That'll be in the fall. If ever you come over to the States mind you look us up. Teddy will give you some big game shooting. I guess you like it, whatever you told dad. You've done things. Mrs. Stilton told me at breakfast this morning that you had got a decoration for distinguishing yourself in action."

"Oh, that was years ago."

"Not more than a hundred," she said gravely. "And I reckon you don't let the flies settle much. Gracious! but it's six o'clock, and I've letters to mail. I must run. But don't you be in a hurry about retiring from that club."

"That's the second," said Lord Roker enigmatically, as he watched her vanish, "the second—and the last."

Lord Roker made no attempt to purloin the Bunyan MS. that night. He thought it possible that the indefatigable Mr. Tullitt might prolong his labours on Charlotte Brontë into the early hours of the morning, and, being of a thoughtful temperament, he was unwilling to interrupt them. He had still two nights at his disposal. The next day he spent chiefly on the links. He did not allow his thoughts to linger regretfully on his hopeless love. He gave his whole attention to the game, and retrieved his reputation by beating the professional's record. In the evening he played his part in progressive bridge with marked success: and then at 1.30 a.m., when the whole establishment was presumably fast asleep, he descended from his bedroom window by a stout rope, and made his way to the wing occupied by Mr. Pilgrim. He found the window of Mr. Tullitt's room, and was busily engaged for the next half-hour in opening it.

He then dropped into the room, and turned on his light.

Three grandfather's clocks were solemnly ticking in three separate corners. The fire was still flickering in the grate. A pile of letters, addressed and stamped, was ready for the post. A batch of correspondence was docketed and endorsed. The waste-paper basket was full to overflowing.

Lord Roker gave one glance round, and then tried the door. It was, as he expected, locked on the outside. He placed some chairs and other obstacles in front of it to impede progress should an alarm be raised, and lit the gas in order to add to Mr. Tullitt's reputation for over-work. Then he turned to the drawer in which the Bunyan MS. was kept. It was locked. He produced a bundle of keys, and finally opened it. There was a document inside, but instead of being time-stained, foxed, and torn, it was modern and neat. Moreover, it was type-written, and endorsed, "Notes on the late C. Brontë, Haworth, Eng., 1904."

Lord Roker turned this out in disgust, hoping to find the Bunyan MS. below; but he was disappointed. The manuscript was not there.

He replaced the Notes in the drawer and turned his attention elsewhere. He opened every drawer and portfolio, looked on every shelf and in every corner, but in vain. There was no sign of the Bunyan MS.

Determined not to be baffled—for his credit as a burglar was at stake—Lord Roker resumed his search, and again went over the ground. Three times at least was he disturbed—when the grandfather's clocks went off at the hour and the half-hour with alarming wheezes and groans. When they had finished with 3.30 he had to admit himself beaten. The manuscript had no doubt been removed to another room. It was desperately annoying, but he had still twenty-four hours to find out where it was, and to get it. He gave up the search reluctantly, made his way through the window, and up the rope to his bedroom.

Soon after breakfast that morning word went round the Hydro that the Bunyan MS. had been stolen from Mr. Pilgrim's rooms—the manuscript for which he had just paid £2,000.

A hole cut in one of the window-panes pointed to the method by which entry had been made, but no clue to the thief had been left behind. The police had been informed, and a detective was coming.

Only the Bunyan MS. was missing—that alone of the many portable and valuable treasures in Mr. Pilgrim's possession. It showed a literary instinct in the thief which was as surprising as it was unusual, for it would be impossible for him to make any profitable use of his booty without certain discovery. The more one reflected about it the more perplexing it was.

To Lord Roker it was humiliating in the extreme. To fail in his mission was exasperating; but the annoyance was increased tenfold with the knowledge that he had been forestalled. Someone else—a professional, no doubt—had been on the same errand. He had not dallied over the enterprise, and he had won the stakes for which he played, and now he, Lord Roker, would have to appear empty-handed at the Burglars'—he, a founder of the Club, would be the first man who had to resign through incapacity to carry out the terms of his membership; it was galling indeed. Even the neat hole he had made in the window had been placed to the credit of the other burglar.

At 6 p.m. he went upstairs to dress. The evenings were chilly, and he occasionally had a fire. He sat down before it now to finish his cigarette, and moodily watched the flames while his thoughts turned on the unsatisfactory nature of all earthly affairs.

Suddenly he gave an exclamation of extreme surprise, jumped out of his chair, and caught hold of a bit of half-burnt paper projecting from the grate. It was perhaps three inches long, and two across. Half of it was ash that fell away as he touched it. On the scant margin left was written, in stiff, archaic English, "Ye Slough of Desp——"

"Amazing!" he cried. For the fragment he held in his hand was part of the missing MS.!

In another instant he had seized his water-jug and emptied the contents on the fire, putting it out, and deluging the hearth. Then he rang the bell, and sent an urgent message for Mr. Pilgrim.

Five minutes later the American entered. Roker handed him the fragment, and pointed out where he had found it.

"Seems a pretty expensive way of li'tin' fires," said Mr. Pilgrim, grimly. "Allow me to ring for the help."

"Did you lay this fire?" he asked the maid who responded.

"No, sir. That's Jenny's work."

"Send Jenny up, then," said Mr. Pilgrim, now on his knees searching the grate for more traces of the MS., but searching in vain.

In a few minutes Jenny entered.

"Did you lay this fire?" Mr. Pilgrim asked again.

"Yes, sir."

"What sort of paper did you use for it?"

"Newspaper. Oh, I know! I laid it yesterday morning with some old rubbishy stuff I found on your floor, sir."

"Old rubbishy stuff you found on my floor!" cried Mr. Pilgrim. "What do you mean, girl?"

"I was lighting your fire yesterday morning, sir, and found I'd used up all my paper, so I got some out of your waste basket. There was a dirty lot of rubbishy paper lying on the floor beside it, so I took that as well, and used it up for my morning fires."

"How many fires did you lay with it altogether?"

"Your two, sir, this one, and the one in the hall."

"Then this is the only one of the lot that wasn't lit yesterday?"

"Yes, sir. I hope it wasn't anythink important that I used."

Mr. Pilgrim sat down.

"Important! Not a bit, my girl. It just cost me ten thousand dollars—that's all."

"It wasn't what they say you've lost, sir, was it?" said the girl. "Oh, sir, I'm that sorry. But all I can say, sir, is that it was on the floor, and it didn't look fit for wrapping sossingers in."

"Go!" shouted Mr. Pilgrim. "You're a born fool." Then, after a long pause, he added, "I'm much obliged to you, Roker. Now come along. I must see my secretary. I suspect he's another mortal fool in disguise."

Mr. Pilgrim's secretary was busy, as usual—this time taking down a letter from Miss Pilgrim's dictation.

"HEY! BUT WHAT ABOUT THAT HOLE IN THE WINDOW?"

([p. 135.])

"Excuse me a minute, Marion," said Mr. Pilgrim. Then to his secretary, "You said you were readin' that blamed Bunyan MS. the night before last. Just describe when you got it out, and what followed."

"I'd finished my transcript of your notes on Miss Brontë, sir, about 11.30, and, having half an hour to spare, I thought I'd just run over that old manuscript again. John Bunyan had his own notions about caligraphy, and he was a bit freer in his spelling than any man I'd come across, so I rather fancied him. While I was reading, you may remember calling me to your room to take down that cable to Boston and the letter of confirmation. It was 12.30 when I left you, and I'd clean forgotten about the manuscript. I turned the light out, and went to bed. A quarter of an hour afterwards I remembered I'd left Bunyan out, so I came back here. I couldn't find the matches, but just felt round for the MS., and put it back in the drawer, and locked it."

"You derned hayseed!" burst in Mr. Pilgrim. "You have your p'ints, but at this pertic'ler moment I think you're more suited for raisin' cabbages than for secretary work. If you can't tell the difference in the handle of a Bunyan MS. and your notes on Charlotte Brontë in the dark, you might know a banana from a potato in daylight. You're—you're—— Man, you put the Brontë notes in the drawer, and left Bunyan out—brushed him on the floor in the dark, an' the help lit the fire with him. Gor!"

The secretary collapsed.

"Never mind, Mr. Tullitt," said Miss Pilgrim. "It was entirely a mistake. I might have done it myself. It comes of working so late. Dad, I guess there's plenty more old manuscripts in the British Isles waiting for dollars to fetch them."

"I reckon there's only one Bunyan MS.," said Mr. Pilgrim, solemnly, "and that's gone to light Hydropathic fires because my secretary doesn't carry wax vestas in his pyjamas. Hey! But what about that hole in the window?"

Mr. and Miss Pilgrim, the secretary, and Lord Roker stared blankly at it.

And that is why Lord Roker was not able to show the Bunyan MS. at the next meeting of the Burglars' Club.

VII.

THE GREAT SEAL.

The Hon. Richard Hilton stared at the type-written letter with distinct feelings of pleasure. This is what he read:—

Sir,—I have the honour to inform you of your election as a member of the Club, conditional upon your attendance on the 5th proximo with the Great Seal of the United Kingdom, procured in the usual way.—Yours faithfully,

The Hon. Secretary.

"That's good," he ejaculated. "Ribston's a trump. But what on earth's the Great Seal of the United Kingdom, and where is it to be found?"

Mr. Hilton's library was chiefly devoted to sport and fiction, and he could find no reference to it therein. He had therefore to make inquiries outside, when he learnt that the Great Seal of the United Kingdom was the property of the Lord Chancellor for the time being, that it was a very important object indeed, its impression being requisite at the foot of the highest documents of State; and, consequently, that its unexpected absence might very well upset the nation's affairs and incidentally bring serious trouble upon anyone who had tampered with it.

Mr. Hilton's sporting instincts were roused. "It seems to me," he thought, "that this is going to be the best thing I have had on since I walked across Thibet disguised as a second-class Mahatma. But where does the Chancellor keep the thing?"

He skimmed through many biographies of Lord Chancellors with very little result. One of them, it appeared, kept the Great Seal with his silver, another always carried it about with him in a special pocket, and slept with it under his pillow; while a third stored it at the Bank of England. History was discreetly silent as to how the other hundred and one keepers of the Great Seal guarded their property.

Mr. Richard Hilton contemplated his notes with disgust. "I never could rely on books," he said. "There's nothing for it but to find out for myself. The present man probably keeps it where any other common-sense fellow would. He'll have a library, so it may be there. He's a good liver, so it may be in a secret bin in his wine cellar; he's a sportsman, so it may be in a gun-case under his bed. I shall have to look round and find out. Where does he live?"

His lordship's town residence was Shipley House, Kensington Gore. Hilton took a walk in that direction. The house looked as unpromising and unsympathetic a subject for robbery as a metropolitan magistrate could have wished. The spiked railings in front and the high wall at the back would have suggested to most people the impossibility of the enterprise; but Mr. Hilton simply noted these items with interest, and then adjourned to a light lunch at his club to think the matter out.

It was one o'clock in the morning when Mr. Hilton scaled the wall at the rear of the Lord Chancellor's house. Though it was nine feet high, it presented no difficulties to an ex-lieutenant in the navy; but he got over carefully, for he was in evening dress, believing that to be the safest disguise for a general burglar. He dropped lightly on the turf, and then made his way across to the house and commenced a careful inspection of the basement windows. To his intense surprise, he found the lower sash of one of them to be open. This astonishing piece of good luck meant the saving of at least an hour. With a cheerful heart he entered the house, finding his way by the electric flashlight which he carried.

His passage to the great hall upstairs was easy. Here he halted to take his bearings. He was at the foot of the marble stairs for which Shipley House was famous. Once they had stood in front of Nero's villa at Antium; but, oblivious of his historic surroundings, Mr. Richard Hilton stood wondering which of the four doors on his left led to the library. One after another he cautiously opened them, only to find living or reception rooms. He crossed the hall, and got into the billiard-room. Where on earth was the Lord Chancellor's den? Ah! those heavy curtains under the staircase. He passed through them. There was a short passage, with a door at the end. Hush! what was that? He listened intently. It was nothing—merely nervous fancy. He turned the handle of the door, and entered.

He was in the Lord Chancellor's library. But, Heavens! he was not there alone.

For a moment he drew back in dismay; but the singularity of the other man's occupation arrested him.

He was kneeling on the floor before the wall at the far end of the room. He had a lamp or candle by his side. What on earth was he doing? Had he surprised the Lord High Chancellor, the keeper of the King of England's conscience, worshipping by stealth at some pagan shrine?

What were the rites he was performing? Curiosity impelled Mr. Hilton forward. As he drew nearer, the situation unfolded itself. He had done the Lord Chancellor an injustice. It was not he.

A man was kneeling before a safe built into the wall. He was drilling holes into the door by the light of a lamp.

He was a real burglar!

The humour of the situation struck Mr. Hilton so keenly that he nearly laughed. For some time he watched the operation, expecting each moment to be discovered. Then, as the man continued absorbed in his work, Mr. Hilton sank noiselessly into an easy chair behind him. To prepare for contingencies, his hand had stolen to his coat pocket, and now held a small revolver.

For half an hour longer he continued to admire the businesslike methods of the burglar. The door of the safe had now been pierced through all round the lock. The man turned to reach another tool. In so doing his eye caught sight of a patent leather boot and a trouser leg, where before there had been empty space. The phenomenon fascinated him. He slowly turned his head, following the clue upward until his eyes were level with the barrel of Mr. Hilton's revolver. His jaw fell, and he stiffened.

"Please keep as you are for a minute," said a low voice from behind the weapon. "I wish you to understand the situation. There is no immediate cause for anxiety. I am—er—a friend in disguise. You may go on with your most interesting work. I shall give no alarm. Do you understand?"

"Who the blazes are you?" asked the burglar.

"Your curiosity is natural. I am in your own noble profession—a top-sawyer or a swell mobsman, I forget which; but I have the certificate at home."

"None of yer gammon," said the burglar. "Can't you put that thing down an' say wot yer game is."

"William," Mr. Hilton replied, "I wish you clearly to understand that you have nothing at all to do with my game. You go on drilling those nice little holes. When you've got that door open we'll discuss matters further. Please proceed."

"'YOU MAY GO ON WITH YOUR MOST INTERESTING WORK.'"

([p. 141.])

"D'you take me for a mug?" asked the burglar defiantly.

"I shall, if you don't go on with your work. This instrument goes off on the slightest provocation, and the wound it makes is very painful."

The burglar turned, and resumed his work; but he did not seem to have much heart in it, nor to derive much encouragement from Mr. Hilton's occasional promptings. Every now and then he looked round suspiciously. Another half-hour passed before he had prized the bolts back, and the door was open.

For the moment the two men forgot everything but their curiosity, and both looked anxiously inside. Every shelf and pigeon-hole was rummaged, but there was nothing but letters and documents. There were two drawers below. The locks of these had to be picked. In the last one the burglar pounced on a bag of money and some notes.

"Got 'im!" he cried triumphantly.

"What?"

"Two 'underd an' fifty quid. 'E gets it on the fust of ev'ry month to pay 'is washin' bill."

"How did you know that?"

"From a pal at the bank. I've 'ad this in my eye for a year or more, but I've mos'ly been a-doin' time since I——" He stopped short suddenly, evidently regretting his outburst of confidence.

"Now put that money back," said Mr. Hilton.

"Wot for?"

"Because I tell you."

"Arfter all the trouble I've 'ad? No bloomin' fear."

"Put it back. You shan't lose by it."

"Wot d'ye mean?"

"I'm looking for something myself. It isn't in the safe, but it may be in some other drawer in the room. If I find it I'll give you £250 myself."

"Name o'Morgan, or am I speakin' to Lord Rothschild?" said the burglar sarcastically. "You don't 'appen to 'ave the chink on you?"

"I haven't; but see, you can have this watch and chain, and my sovereign purse, and these links, and I think—yes, here's a tenner. You can have this lot till I give you the money."

The burglar was impressed.

"Cap'n," he said, "you've a free an' easy way in 'andlin' walubles wot soots me down to the ground. I wish we could 'ave met sooner. It would 'ave saved my ole woman many a weary six months. But wot's the need to leave the chink? S'pose we takes the bag, an' leaves the notes?"

"You've got to leave the lot, William," said Mr. Hilton decisively.

The burglar turned thoughtfully away from the safe. "Wot is it you're lookin' for?" he asked. "'As the guv'n'r cut you orf with a bob, an' are you a-goin' to alter the ole bloke's will?"

"I'm looking for a seal."

"Stuffed?" asked William, with a sportsman's interest.

"No. A seal for stamping wax. It's a big one, made of silver, and about six inches across. Let's try these drawers in the desk."

There were six of them. Four were open, the other two locked. It took some time to open these. They were full of legal matter. Then they turned their attention to a set below some bookshelves. While the burglar was busy with the locks Hilton turned over the papers on the desk. The first was headed, "House of Lords: Gibbins v. Gibbins. Judgment of Lord Ravy." Another read, "Gibbins v. Gibbins. Judgment of Lord McTaughtun." Beside them was the half-written judgment of the Lord Chancellor himself.

Mr. Richard Hilton looked at these legal feats without interest. Mechanically he lifted the lid of the desk. A large leather case fitted exactly into the compartment below. He pulled it out. It was stamped with the royal arms.

"Here. Cut this, please."

The flap was cut, and Hilton drew out a richly embroidered and betasselled silk purse.

He looked eagerly inside.

"Hurrah!" he cried in his excitement. For it was the Great Seal of the United Kingdom.

The burglar examined it critically, and then felt its weight. "Five quid," he said, putting it down contemptuously.

Hilton dropped it carefully into his pocket.

At this moment the electric light was suddenly switched on, and the whole place was brilliantly illuminated. They both turned sharply towards the door. There in his dressing-gown stood an old gentleman. Hilton had often seen those classic features in photographs or the illustrated papers. He recognised them at once. It was the Lord Chancellor.

"What are you doing here?" came the stern judicial voice.

"We are—er—we are making the Home Circuit, my lord," said Hilton deferentially. "May I ask your lordship to be good enough to lower your voice. You perceive that I am armed."

"You would dare to fire on me, sir?" said the Lord Chancellor.

"I hope it will not be necessary; for in that case your lordship would not hunt next season with the Bister Vale. Will you please take that seat?"

His lordship sank into the chair. "You are a bold man," he said, after a pause.

"A bold, bad man, I fear, my lord. And so is my partner, Mr. William Sikes here. Aren't you, William?"

William did not reply. He was gazing intently at the Lord Chancellor.

"Ain't yer name 'Ardy?" he asked. "'Enery 'Ardy?"

"It used to be," replied his lordship.

"I thought so," said Mr. Sikes. "Then I says to yer face you're a bloomin', footlin' rotter."

"'Gently, brother, gently, pray,'" said Hilton.

"A bloomin', footlin' rotter," repeated Mr. Sikes with the earnestness of conviction. "An' I've waited five-an'-twenty year to tell you so."

"Ah," said the Lord Chancellor, with some interest. "How is that?"

"I once paid you to defend me at the Dawchester 'Sizes respectin' a mare wot 'ad follered me inter 'Ampshire. A sickenin' 'ash you made of it. You got two quid fer the job, an' I got two year. I b'lieve you woz boozed."

"Pray forgive William, my lord," said Hilton. "He forgets himself strangely when he's excited. We have a lot of trouble with him at home."

William glared at him. "I ain't forgot that bloke's ugly mug, any'ow. I swore I'd be quits with 'im one day, an', holy Moses, it's my go now." Saying this, he clutched his jemmy, and advanced threateningly towards his lordship.

"Stay, you fool!" Hilton cried. "If you dare to touch him I'll shoot you. Get back."

William hesitated.

"If you don't get back before I count three I'll lame you for life. One—two——"

William retired sullenly.

"My lord," said Hilton, "I must draw this painful interview to a close. Your presence excites William, and he's always dangerous when excited. We will retire. Before I go, I wish to give you my word of honour that anything we may take away with us to-night will be again in your possession within forty-eight hours."

"Your word of honour, sir!" repeated his lordship with withering contempt.

"You are ungenerous, my lord. You force me to remind you that but for my interference William would undoubtedly have had his revenge upon you to-night, and the Woolsack have lost its brightest ornament. In return, I ask your lordship to give me your own assurance that you will not raise any alarm for the next half-hour. If you do not we shall have to bind and gag you."

"Don't you be such a fool as to trust 'im," said William. "I'll do the gaggin'," he added, with enthusiasm.

"Shut up, William," said Mr. Hilton. "If his lordship gives his word you may be sure he will keep it—even with thieves. The age of chivalry is not yet past, although you are still alive. My lord, do you agree?"

"I am in your hands. I promise."

Hilton bowed. He pointed to the door to his companion.

"My tools," said William, going round the desk to collect them. A minute later the two had left the room. In five minutes they had scaled the outside wall, and within the half-hour were in Richard Hilton's rooms.

Mr. William Sikes looked round him admiringly.

"I understand your feelings, William," said Mr. Hilton, "but my windows and doors are every night connected with a burglar-alarm, and my man, who was once a noted bruiser, is close at hand. I don't really think it would be safe for you to call again. Now you want your money. I will write a cheque out, payable to bearer, and give it you. If you make yourself nice and tidy they will cash it for you in the morning over the counter at my bank."

"I don't like cashin' cheques at banks," said William. "I never was any good at it," he added pensively. "Ain't you got any rhino in this 'ere shanty?"

"Let me see. You have a tenner of mine in your pocket. Perhaps I can give you some more." Hilton opened a bureau, and produced a cash-box. "You see where I keep it, William," he remarked pleasantly. "I shall have to find another place for it in future—you are so very impulsive. Ah, here we are. Three fivers and two—four—six in gold. That makes twenty-one. And where's the sovereign purse I gave you? Thank you. Here are four more: that makes twenty-five; and you have ten: that is thirty-five. Now I'll make a cheque out for the balance—what is it? Yes; two hundred and fifteen pounds. . . . Here it is. Perhaps your friend at the Lord Chancellor's bank will present it for you before three o'clock this afternoon, when I shall suddenly find that I have lost the cheque, and shall stop payment."

"Wot do you do that for?" asked William suspiciously.

"I must do it for my own protection, William, as I'm afraid it wouldn't be wise for me to have any direct transactions with you. But until three o'clock the game is in your hands. Now it's time for you to have your beauty sleep. I am much obliged for your assistance. Good-night. Oh, by the way, let me have my watch, please—and the links. William, I'm afraid you were forgetting them."

"Blow me, but I was," said William frankly, as he dived into his capacious pockets. "My mem'ry ain't wot it used to be, an' I knows it. Wot with work an' worry, an' worry an' work, it don't 'ave a fair chance. 'Ere you are, Cap'n." And William placed the jewellery in Mr. Hilton's hands with obvious regret. Then his host showed him off the premises.

It was now four o'clock. Hilton pulled out the Great Seal, and locked it up in a secret drawer in his bureau. Then he retired to rest, in the happy consciousness of a night well spent.

He rose late that morning, and it was one o'clock before he left his rooms. In Piccadilly, on the news posters:

"THE
GREAT SEAL
OF
ENGLAND
STOLEN,"

at once caught his eye. He bought a paper, and turned to the column with curious interest.

"A daring robbery was perpetrated in the early hours of this morning at Shipley House, Kensington Gore, the residence of the Lord Chancellor. His lordship, being unable to sleep, came downstairs about two o'clock, intending to complete an important judgment. In the library he found two burglars, who succeeded in decamping before his lordship could obtain assistance.

"The Great Seal of England, and £250 in gold and notes are missing.

"This is probably the most audacious burglary of modern times, for the Lord Chancellor is the head of the judicial system of the country, and, after Royalty, is only second in importance to the Archbishop of Canterbury.

"England is to-day without a Great Seal of State, a position unparalleled since it was stolen from Lord Thurlow's residence in 1784. Only once before had it been missing—when James II. threw it into the Thames at Lambeth.

"Great inconvenience has already been caused by its absence, as the treaty between England and Korea was to have been signed to-morrow, and the Great Seal affixed thereto. We understand that the Privy Council will meet in the morning at Buckingham Palace in order to deal with the situation thus created.

"We are informed that the police have an important clue which will lead to the apprehension of at least one of the criminals. We do not know whether any special penalty is attached to the theft of the Great Seal, but a century ago the perpetrator of the crime would undoubtedly have been hanged."

Richard Hilton stared at this in blank amazement. The pains and penalties did not disturb him, but "£250 in gold and notes missing" held him spellbound. Suddenly light dawned upon him, and he burst out with "Done! And by William! That was when he collected his tools, and I wasn't watching. The scoundrel! Hi! hansom! . . . Cox's Bank. Sharp!"

Ten minutes later he was at the bank counter.

"I have lost a cheque for £215, payable to bearer, made out to self and endorsed. Please stop payment," he said.

"Very sorry, Mr. Hilton," replied the teller. "It was presented first thing this morning, and I cashed it in gold."

That evening the meeting of the Burglars' Club was held at the house of Lord Altamont, an ex-colonel of the Welsh Guards. There was a record attendance. The robbery of the Great Seal had excited general interest, but to members of the Club the accompanying details were of the gravest importance.

After the usual opening formalities had been gone through, Lord Ribston rose.

"Mr. President, I crave leave for Mr. Richard Hilton, a cadet member of this club, to speak."

Assent was given by the general silence, which was maintained when Hilton entered.

"Mr. President, my lords and gentlemen," he began, "I regret exceedingly that I have to make my first appearance in your midst with an apology. I take it that you have all seen the paragraph in the papers stating that the Great Seal is missing from the Lord Chancellor's House, and, in addition to that, £250 in notes and gold. No explanation is needed as to the absence of the Great Seal, for that resulted from the mandate of your club. The other item calls for a clear and explicit statement of the facts of the case."

Here Hilton gave an account of the robbery from his first meeting the burglar to his parting from him, concluding, "So now, gentlemen, I suggest that I deserve your sympathy rather than your blame; for not only has Mr. Sikes relieved me of £250, but I have promised the Lord Chancellor to return anything we took away with us. I shall, therefore, have to send him a further like sum. I do not grudge the loss of £500, since I have been enabled to qualify as a member of your club, but I do most sincerely regret that my bungling has led to even a temporary suspicion that the taint of professionalism has been brought into your midst. My lords and gentlemen, I am in your hands. Here, at any rate, is the Great Seal of the United Kingdom."

The last words were lost in tumultuous applause. Each member rose to his feet and acclaimed the speaker, and then they crowded round him and shook hands.

"Gentlemen," said the President, when order had been restored, "I move that Mr. Richard Hilton be now formally enrolled as a member of the Club, and in your name I welcome him as one who has already added lustre to our annals. The circumstances of his entry are so unusual that, as a mark of our appreciation, I beg to move that the provincial line due from him in the usual course of things in two years' time be hereby excused, and that, as an exception to our rule, Mr. Hilton be elected for a term of four years."

The proposition was carried by acclamation.

"Your Grace and gentlemen, I thank you," said the beaming Richard Hilton.

The Privy Council met at ten on the following morning, and ordered a new seal to be engraved; but at noon a postal packet was delivered at Shipley House, which, on being opened, disclosed an old biscuit tin, then tissue paper, then cotton-wool, and finally the Great Seal of the United Kingdom.

The treaty between England and Korea was signed with the usual formalities at three in the afternoon.

Later in the day the Lord Chancellor received from five different quarters registered parcels, each weighing about a pound avoirdupois. Each packet contained fifty sovereigns.

Thus within forty-eight hours his lordship had received all the stolen property. In consideration thereof he cancelled his instructions to Scotland Yard to follow up a clue which Mr. William Sikes had incautiously given about a Dorset horse robbery in the late 'seventies.

His lordship also advertised his acknowledgments in the agony column of the Times, and asked for the favour of an explanation of the whole incident. This was not forthcoming, and the matter remained for some time the one unsolved riddle of his lordship's life.

Mr. William Sikes, with the £500 so ingeniously obtained, retired from the burglary profession, and bought a little public house known as the "Goat and Compasses." For some reason or other he altered the name to "Seal and Compasses," thereby causing much mystification to future antiquarians in that particular district.

In recalling his conduct on the night in question, Mr. Sikes spends some of the happiest hours of his life.

To Mr. Richard Hilton the events of that night were also eminently satisfactory. He was the only loser, but he had gained more than he had lost, for the laurels of the Burglars' Club were his.

VIII.

THE LION AND THE SUN.

The visit of His Royal Highness Ali Azim Mirza, nephew of the Shah, accompanied by the Grand Vizier, Hasan Kuli, is fresh in our memories. The mission of the Prince was to invest a distinguished personage with the insignia of the Lion and the Sun in order to mark the Persian monarch's appreciation of the Garter which had been recently conferred upon him. The Mission duly returned with its object accomplished. Outwardly everything happened as was anticipated, and there are but few who know how nearly we approached to a war with Russia as a consequence of the visit, while still fewer are aware that such a calamity was averted by a cadet member of the Burglars' Club.