Harry the Actor had lived up to his dramatic instinct.  Nothing was wrapped up; nay, the rich booty had been deliberately opened out and displayed, as it were, so that the overturning of the bag, when John the keybearer in an access of riotous extravagance lifted it up and strewed its contents broadcast on the floor, was like the looting of a smuggler’s den, or the realization of a speculator’s dream, or the bursting of an Aladdin’s cave, or something incredibly lavish and bizarre.  Bank-notes fluttered down and lay about in all directions, relays of sovereigns rolled away like so much dross, bonds and scrip for thousands and tens of thousands clogged the downpouring stream of jewellery and unset gems.  A yellow stone the size of a four-pound weight and twice as heavy dropped plump upon the canon’s toes and sent him hopping and grimacing to the wall.  A ruby-hilted kris cut across the manager’s wrist as he strove to arrest the splendid rout.  Still the miraculous cornucopia deluged the ground, with its pattering, ringing, bumping, crinkling, rolling, fluttering produce until, like the final tableau of some spectacular ballet, it ended with a golden rain that masked the details of the heap beneath a glittering veil of yellow sand.

“My dust!” gasped Draycott.

“My fivers, by golly!” ejaculated the bookmaker, initiating a plunge among the spoil.

“My Japanese bonds, coupons and all, and—­yes, even the manuscript of my work on ’Polyphyletic Bridal Customs among the mid-Pleistocene Cave Men.’  Hah!” Something approaching a cachinnation of delight closed the professor’s contribution to the pandemonium, and eyewitnesses afterwards declared that for a moment the dignified scientist stood on one foot in the opening movement of a can-can.

“My wife’s diamonds, thank heaven!” cried Sir Benjamin, with the air of a schoolboy who was very well out of a swishing.

“But what does it mean?” demanded the bewildered canon.  “Here are my family heirlooms—­a few decent pearls, my grandfather’s collection of camei and other trifles—­but who—?”

“Perhaps this offers some explanation,” suggested Mr. Carlyle, unpinning an envelope that had been secured to the lining of the bag.  “It is addressed ‘To Seven Rich Sinners.’  Shall I read it for you?”

For some reason the response was not unanimous, but it was sufficient.  Mr. Carlyle cut open the envelope.

“My dear Friends,—­Aren’t you glad?  Aren’t you happy at this moment?  Ah yes; but not with the true joy of regeneration that alone can bring lightness to the afflicted soul.  Pause while there is yet time.  Cast off the burden of your sinful lusts, for what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? (Mark, chap. viii, v. 36.)

“Oh, my friends, you have had an all-fired narrow squeak.  Up till the Friday in last week I held your wealth in the hollow of my ungodly hand and rejoiced in my nefarious cunning, but on that day as I with my guilty female accomplice stood listening with worldly amusement to the testimony of a converted brother at a meeting of the Salvation Army on Clapham Common, the gospel light suddenly shone into our rebellious souls and then and there we found salvation.  Hallelujah!