“Perhaps you’re right,” he said.  “Lean well back, please....  That’s better.”

The consummate impudence of the rogue intensified the atmosphere of unreality, which was most distracting.  Doggedly my bewildered brain was labouring in the midst of a litter of fiction, which had suddenly changed into truth.  The impossible had come to pass.  The cracksman of the novel had come to life, and I was reluctantly witnessing, in comparative comfort and at my own expense, an actual exhibition of felony enriched with all the spices which the cupboard of Sensation contains.

The monstrous audacity of the proceedings, and the business-like way in which they were conducted, were almost stupefying.

Most of the silver in the house, including a number of pieces, our possession of which I had completely forgotten, seemed to have been collected and laid in rough order upon rugs, which had been piled one upon the other to deaden noise.  One man was taking it up, piece by piece, scrutinizing it with an eye-glass such as watchmakers use, and dictating descriptions and particulars to a second, who was seated at the broad writing-table, entering the details, in triplicate, in a large order-book.  By his side a third manipulated a pair of scales, weighing each piece with the greatest care and reporting the result to the second, who added the weight to the description.  Occasionally the latter paused to draw at a cigarette, which lay smouldering in the ash-tray by his side.  As each piece was weighed, the third handed it to a fourth assistant, who wrapped it in a bag of green baize and laid it gently in an open suit-case.  Four other cases stood by his side, all bearing a number of labels and more or less the worse for wear.

All four men were masked and gloved, and working with a rapidity and method which were remarkable.  With the exception of the packer, who wore a footman’s livery, they were attired in evening-dress.

“We find it easier,” said the master, as if interpreting my thoughts, “to do it all on the spot.  Then it’s over and done with.  I do hope you’re insured,” he added.  “I always think it’s so much more satisfactory.”

“Up to the hilt,” said I cheerfully.  “We had it all re-valued only this year, because of the rise in silver.”

“Splendid!”—­enthusiastically.  “But I’m neglecting you.”  With his left hand the rogue picked up an ash-tray and stepped to my side.  Then he backed to the mantelpiece, whence he picked up and brought me a handful of cigarettes, laying them on the broad arm of my chair.  “I’m afraid the box has gone,” he said regretfully.  “May I mix you a drink?”

I shook my head.

“I’ve had my ration.  If I’d known, I’d have saved some.  You see, I don’t sit up so late, as a rule.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

As he did so, my own last words rang familiarly in my ears:  “I don’t sit up so late” ...  “Don’t sit up.” ...