Arriving at the conservatory in due course, he found that Muriel’s averments as to the vulnerability of that corner of her father’s house were correct in every particular.  He entered with ease, sniffed the warm, moist air, and, leaving the door slightly ajar, sought the pantry, lowered the shades, and, helping himself to a candle from a silver candelabrum, readily found the safe hidden away in one of the cupboards.  He was surprised to find himself more nervous with the combination in his hand than on memorable occasions in the old days when he had broken into country postoffices and assaulted safes by force.  In his haste he twice failed to give the proper turns, but the third time the knob caught, and in a moment the door swung open disclosing shelves filled with vases, bottles, bowls, and plates in bewildering variety.  A chest of silver appealed to him distractingly as a much more tangible asset than the pottery, and he dizzily contemplated a jewel-case containing a diamond necklace with a pearl pendant.  The moment was a critical one in The Hopper’s eventful career.  This dazzling prize was his for the taking, and he knew the operator of a fence in Chicago who would dispose of the necklace and make him a fair return.  But visions of Muriel, the beautiful, the confiding, and of her little Shaver asleep on Humpy’s bed, rose before him.  He steeled his heart against temptation, drew his candle along the shelf and scrutinized the glazes.  There could be no mistaking the red Lang-Yao whose brilliant tints kindled in the candle-glow.  He lifted it tenderly, verifying the various points of Muriel’s description, set it down on the floor and locked the safe.

He was retracing his steps toward the conservatory and had reached the main hall when the creaking of the stairsteps brought him up with a start.  Some one was descending, slowly and cautiously.  For a second time and with grateful appreciation of Muriel’s forethought, he carefully avoided the ferocious jaws of the bear, noiselessly continued on to the conservatory, crept through the door, closed it, and then, crouching on the steps, awaited developments.  The caution exercised by the person descending the stairway was not that of a householder who has been roused from slumber by a disquieting noise.  The Hopper was keenly interested in this fact.

With his face against the glass he watched the actions of a tall, elderly man with a short, grayish beard, who wore a golf-cap pulled low on his head—­points noted by The Hopper in the flashes of an electric lamp with which the gentleman was guiding himself.  His face was clearly the original of a photograph The Hopper had seen on the table at Muriel’s cottage—­Mr. Wilton, Muriel’s father, The Hopper surmised; but just why the owner of the establishment should be prowling about in this fashion taxed his speculative powers to the utmost.  Warned by steps on the cement floor of the conservatory, he left the door in haste and flattened himself against the wall of the house some distance away and again awaited developments.