“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action.  I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick.  I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind.  It was not in front.  Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it.  We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before.  I hardly looked at his face.  His knees were what I wished to see.  You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were.  They spoke of those hours of burrowing.  The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for.  I walked round the corner, saw that the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem.  When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard, and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.”

“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I asked.

“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence; in other words, that they had completed their tunnel.  But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed.  Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape.  For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night.”

“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed, in unfeigned admiration.  “It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”

“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning.  “Alas!  I already feel it closing in upon me.  My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence.  These little problems help me to do so.”

“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I. He shrugged his shoulders.  “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use,” he remarked.  “‘L’homme c’est rien—­l’oeuvre c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to Georges Sands.”

Egerton Castle

The Baron’s Quarry

“Oh, no, I assure you, you are not boring Mr. Marshfield,” said this personage himself in his gentle voice—­that curious voice that could flow on for hours, promulgating profound and startling theories on every department of human knowledge or conducting paradoxical arguments without a single inflection or pause of hesitation.  “I am, on the contrary, much interested in your hunting talk.  To paraphrase a well-worn quotation somewhat widely, nihil humanum a me alienum est.  Even hunting stories may have their point of biological interest; the philologist sometimes pricks his ear to the jargon of the chase; moreover, I am not incapable of appreciating the subject matter itself.  This seems to excite some derision.  I admit I am not much of a sportsman to look at, nor, indeed, by instinct, yet I have had some out-of-the-way experiences in that line—­generally when intent on other pursuits.  I doubt, for instance, if even you, Major Travers, notwithstanding your well-known exploits against man and beast, notwithstanding that doubtful smile of yours, could match the strangeness of a certain hunting adventure in which I played an important part.”