There was a movement of men turning and then a sudden stillness, as of their stiffening, for over in the corner on the wooden floor there was really a round spot of pale light.  It was the only spot of light in the room.  The cigar had gone out.

“It points the way,” came the voice of the oracle.  “The spirits are pointing the way to penitence, and urging the thief to restitution.  I can see nothing more.”  His voice trailed off into a silence that lasted solidly for many minutes, like the long silence below when the theft had been committed.  Then it was broken by the ring of metal on the floor, and the sound of something spinning and falling like a tossed halfpenny.

“Light the lamp!” cried Fisher in a loud and even jovial voice, leaping to his feet with far less languor than usual.  “I must be going now, but I should like to see it before I go.  Why, I came on purpose to see it.”

The lamp was lit, and he did see it, for St. Paul’s Penny was lying on the floor at his feet.

“Oh, as for that,” explained Fisher, when he was entertaining March and Twyford at lunch about a month later, “I merely wanted to play with the magician at his own game.”

“I thought you meant to catch him in his own trap,” said Twyford.  “I can’t make head or tail of anything yet, but to my mind he was always the suspect.  I don’t think he was necessarily a thief in the vulgar sense.  The police always seem to think that silver is stolen for the sake of silver, but a thing like that might well be stolen out of some religious mania.  A runaway monk turned mystic might well want it for some mystical purpose.”

“No,” replied Fisher, “the runaway monk is not a thief.  At any rate he is not the thief.  And he’s not altogether a liar, either.  He said one true thing at least that night.”

“And what was that?” inquired March.

“He said it was all magnetism.  As a matter of fact, it was done by means of a magnet.”  Then, seeing they still looked puzzled, he added, “It was that toy magnet belonging to your nephew, Mr. Twyford.”

“But I don’t understand,” objected March.  “If it was done with the schoolboy’s magnet, I suppose it was done by the schoolboy.”

“Well,” replied Fisher, reflectively, “it rather depends which schoolboy.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“The soul of a schoolboy is a curious thing,” Fisher continued, in a meditative manner.  “It can survive a great many things besides climbing out of a chimney.  A man can grow gray in great campaigns, and still have the soul of a schoolboy.  A man can return with a great reputation from India and be put in charge of a great public treasure, and still have the soul of a schoolboy, waiting to be awakened by an accident.  And it is ten times more so when to the schoolboy you add the skeptic, who is generally a sort of stunted schoolboy.  You said just now that things might be done by religious mania.  Have you ever heard of irreligious mania?  I assure you it exists very violently, especially in men who like showing up magicians in India.  But here the skeptic had the temptation of showing up a much more tremendous sham nearer home.”