erefore, the
most precious to him. It is not necessary to break the locks. If you
press that brass knob you will find that there is a secret spring. So!
Take that small one first--it is the very apple of his eye."

She had opened one of the cases, and the beautiful things all lay
exposed before me. I had my hand upon the one which she had pointed out,
when suddenly a change came over her face, and she held up one finger as
a warning. "Hist!" she whispered. "What is that?"

Far away in the silence of the house we heard a low, dragging, shuffling
sound, and the distant tread of feet. She closed and fastened the case
in an instant.

"It's my husband!" she whispered. "All right. Don't be alarmed. I'll
arrange it. Here! Quick, behind the tapestry!"

She pushed me behind the painted curtains upon the wall, my empty
leather bag still in my hand. Then she took her taper and walked quickly
into the room from which we had come. From where I stood I could see
her through the open door.

"Is that you, Robert?" she cried.

The light of a candle shone through the door of the museum, and the
shuffling steps came nearer. Then I saw a face in the doorway, a great,
heavy face, all lines and creases, with a huge curving nose, and a pair
of gold glasses fixed across it. He had to throw his head back to see
through the glasses, and that great nose thrust out in front of him like
the beak of some sort of fowl. He was a big man, very tall and burly, so
that in his loose dressing-gown his figure seemed to fill up the whole
doorway. He had a pile of grey, curling hair all round his head, but his
face was clean-shaven. His mouth was thin and small and prim, hidden
away under his long, masterful nose. He stood there, holding the candle
in front of him, and looking at his wife with a queer, malicious gleam
in his eyes. It only needed that one look to tell me that he was as fond
of her as she was of him.

"How's this?" he asked. "Some new tantrum? What do you mean by wandering
about the house? Why don't you go to bed?"

"I could not sleep," she answered. She spoke languidly and wearily. If
she was an actress once, she had not forgotten her calling.

"Might I suggest," said he, in the same mocking kind of voice, "that a
good conscience is an excellent aid to sleep?"

"That cannot be true," she answered, "for you sleep very well."

"I have only one thing in my life to be ashamed of," said he, and his
hair bristled up with anger until he