-something which took many hours a day for months
on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he
was running a tunnel to some other building.

"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 knowledg