For a few seconds Mr. Higgs stood listening and wondering what explanation he should give.  Still thinking, he ran downstairs, and, throwing open the pantry window, unlocked the door leading into the shop and scattered a few of his cherished possessions about the floor.  By the time he had done this, people were already beating upon the street-door and exchanging hurried remarks with Mr. Burge at the window above.  The jeweller shot back the bolts, and half-a-dozen neighbours, headed by the butcher opposite, clad in his nightgown and armed with a cleaver, burst into the passage.  A constable came running up just as the pallid face of Brother Burge peered over the balusters.  The constable went upstairs three at a time, and twisting his hand in the ex-burglar’s neck-cloth bore him backwards.

“I’ve got one,” he shouted.  “Come up and hold him while I look round.”

The butcher was beside him in a moment; Brother Burge struggling wildly, called loudly upon the name of Brother Higgs.

“That’s all right, constable,” said the latter, “that’s a friend of mine.”

“Friend o’ yours, sir?” said the disappointed officer, still holding him.

The jeweller nodded.  “Mr. Samuel Burge the Converted Burglar,” he said mechanically.

“Conver——­” gasped the astonished constable.  “Converted burglar?  Here!”

“He is a preacher now,” added Mr. Higgs.

“Preacher?” retorted the constable.  “Why it’s as plain as a pikestaff.  Confederates:  his part was to go down and let ’em in.”

Mr. Burge raised a piteous outcry.  “I hope you may be forgiven for them words,” he cried piously.

“What time did you go up to bed?” pursued the constable.

“About half-past eleven,” replied Mr. Higgs.

The other grunted with satisfaction.  “And he’s fully dressed, with his boots off,” he remarked.  “Did you hear him go out of his room at all?”

“He did go out,” said the jeweller truth-fully, “but——­”

“I thought so,” said the constable, turning to his prisoner with affectionate solicitude.  “Now you come along o’ me.  Come quietly, because it’ll be the best for you in the end.”

“You won’t get your skull split open then,” added the butcher, toying with his cleaver.

The jeweller hesitated.  He had no desire to be left alone with Mr. Burge again; and a sense of humour, which many years’ association with the Primitive Apostles had not quite eradicated, strove for hearing.

“Think of the sermon it’ll make,” he said encouragingly to the frantic Mr. Burge, “think of the congregation!”

Brother Burge replied in language which he had not used in public since he had joined the Apostles.  The butcher and another man stood guard over him while the constable searched the premises and made all secure again.  Then with a final appeal to Mr. Higgs who was keeping in the background, he was pitched to the police-station by the energetic constable and five zealous assistants.