was filled with books of uniform binding
which occupied the shelves. The books had been supplied by a great
bookseller of London, and included--at Mr. Minute's suggestion--"The
Hundred Best Books," "Books That Have Helped Me," "The Encyclopedia
Brillonica," and twenty bound volumes of a certain weekly periodical of
international reputation. John Minute had no literary leanings.

The sergeant hesitated, wiped his heavy boots on the sodden mat outside
the window, and walked into the room.

"You are pretty cozy, John," he said.

"What do you want?" asked Minute, without enthusiasm.

"I thought I'd look you up. My constable reported your windows were
open, and I felt it my duty to come along and warn you--there are
thieves about, John."

"I know of one," said John Minute, looking at the other steadily. "Your
constable, as you call him, is, I presume, that thick-headed jackass,
Wiseman!"

"Got him first time," said the sergeant, removing his waterproof cape.
"I don't often trouble you, but somehow I had a feeling I'd like to see
you to-night. My constable revived old memories, John."

"Unpleasant for you, I hope," said John Minute ungraciously.

"There's a nice little gold farm four hundred miles north of Gwelo,"
said Sergeant Smith meditatively.

"And a nice little breakwater half a mile south of Cape Town," said John
Minute, "where the Cape government keeps highwaymen who hold up the
Salisbury coach and rob the mails."

Sergeant Smith smiled.

"You will have your little joke," he said; "but I might remind you that
they have plenty of accommodation on the breakwater, John. They even
take care of men who have stolen land and murdered natives."

"What do you want?" asked John Minute again.

The other grinned.

"Just a pleasant little friendly visit," he explained. "I haven't looked
you up for twelve months. It is a hard life, this police work, even when
you have got two or three pounds a week from a private source to add to
your pay. It is nothing like the work we have in the Matabele mounted
police, eh, John? But, Lord," he said, looking into the fire
thoughtfully, "when I think how I stood up in the attorney's office at
Salisbury and took my solemn oath that old John Gedding had transferred
his Saibach gold claims to you on his death bed; when I think of the
amount of perjury--me a uniformed servant of the British South African
Company, and, so to speak, an official of the law--I blush for myself."

"Do