relentless judge he had supposed himself.  Yet on the other hand, the remembrance of Vaughan and the other men he was representing held him to his idea of justice.  “Sit down,” he said suddenly turning to McVay, “and write me out a list of everything you have stolen in this neighbourhood and where it is and how it may be obtained.  Yes, I know it is difficult, but you had better try to do it for on the completeness of your list depends your only chance of avoiding the law.  If I can return all properly, perhaps—­I have a mine in Mexico, a hell on earth, where you can go if you prefer it to penal servitude.  There won’t be much difference, except for the publicity of a trial.  I’ve a man there who, when I give him his orders, would infinitely rather shoot you than take any risk of your getting away.  Which will you have?”

“Can you ask, Holland?  Which will be easier for my sister?”

“Sit down and write your list, then.”

“An interesting occupation, mining,” observed McVay as he opened the portfolio.  After this for a long time nothing was heard but the soft noise of the pencil and an occasional comment from the writer: 

“A rare piece that.  I parted with it absurdly low, but the dealer was a connoisseur—­appealed to my artistic side.”

Things had gone on thus for perhaps an hour when a step sounded outside and the door bell rang.  Both men jumped to their feet.

“My God, Holland,” said McVay, “if that is the police, keep your wits about you or we are lost.”

It was a revelation to Geoffrey to find how completely, as his alarm showed, he had cast in his interests with McVay’s.  He stepped forward in silence and opened the door.

Not the police, but a man in plain clothes was standing there.

“I’m glad to see you safe, Mr. Holland,” he said.  “There has been great anxiety felt for your safety.  I am a detective working on the Vaughan and Marheim cases.  I got word to come and look you up as you did not get back to the gardener’s cottage the night before last.”

“The snow detained me,” said Geoffrey slowly.

“Come in, come in, friend,” said McVay briskly.  “You must be cold.”

It speaks well for the professional eye that the detective, after studying McVay for an instant, asked: 

“I did not catch this gentleman’s name.  Who is he?”

There was a barely perceptible pause.  Then Geoffrey answered coolly:  “That is the man you are after.”

“Are you crazy, Holland?” shouted McVay.

“What, the Vaughan burglar?  You caught him without assistance?” Envy and admiration struggled on the detective’s countenance.  “I must congratulate you, sir.”

Geoffrey allowed himself the luxury of a groan.  “You needn’t,” he said; “I am no subject for congratulation.  I can’t even prosecute him, confound him, for several reasons.  We were at school together, and I can take no steps in the matter.”