“Meanwhile I had been pushing on my preparations for further captures.  A large, mahogany-faced safe was fixed in the dining-room to contain the silver; a burglar alarm was fitted under the floor in front of the safe and connected with a trembler-drum that was kept (with the concussor and a few other appliances) locked in a hanging cupboard at my bed-head, ready to be switched on and placed under my pillow at night.  I secretly purchased a quantity of paste jewelry—­bracelets, tiaras, pendants and such like glittering trash—­and when everything was ready I engaged two new servants of decidedly queer antecedents.  I was at first a little doubtful about the cook, but the housemaid was a certainty from the outset.  Her character from her late reverend and philanthropic employer, urging me as a Christian man (which I was not) to ’give her another chance,’ made that perfectly clear.

“I gave her another chance, though not quite of the kind that the reverend gentleman meant.  Two days after her arrival I directed her to clean the plate and handed her the key of the safe, of which I have reason to believe that she took a squeeze with a piece of dough.  The sham diamonds were locked in a separate division of the safe, but I introduced them to her by taking them out in her presence, spreading them on the table and ostentatiously cleaning their rolled-gold settings with a soft brush.  They certainly made a gorgeous and glittering show.  I could not have distinguished them from real diamonds; and as for Susan Slodger—­that was the housemaid’s name—­her eyes fairly bulged with avarice.

“It was less than a week after this that the next incident occurred.  I was lying in bed, dozing fitfully but never losing consciousness.  I slept badly at that time, for memories which I avoided by day would come crowding on me in the darkness.  I would think of my lost happiness, of my poor, murdered wife and of the wretch who had so lightly crushed out her sweet life as one would kill an inconvenient insect; and the thoughts filled me alternately with unutterable sadness that banished sleep or with profound anger that urged me to seek justice and retribution.

“The long-case clock on the stair had just struck two when the trembler-drum beneath my pillow suddenly broke into a prolonged roll.  Someone was standing in front of the safe in the dining-room.  I rose quietly, switched off the drum, replaced it in the hanging cupboard, and, taking from the same receptacle the concussor and a small leather bag filled with shot and attached to a long coil of fishing-line, softly descended the stairs.  On the mid-way landing I laid down the shot-bag and paid out the coil of line as I descended the next flight.  In the hall I paused for a few seconds to listen.  Both the doors of the dining-room were shut, but I could hear faint sounds within.  I approached the door further from the street and carefully grasped the knob.  The locks and hinges I knew were thoroughly oiled, for I had attended to them daily in common with all the other doors in the lower part of the house.  I turned the knob slowly and made gentle pressure on the door, which presently began to open without a sound.  As it opened I became aware of a low muttering, and caught distinctly the half-whispered words, ‘Better try the pick first, Fred.’