e servant, had
always refused him permission.

On this evening the count went out early, and Robert Bolton having some
errands to do, followed his master. About ten o'clock the prisoner
called at the house, No. 24 Cambridge Terrace, and asked to speak to
Count St. Croix. The landlady of the house told him the count was from
home; then the prisoner said:

"I know. I will go to his room and wait there for him."

The landlady, believing him to be a perfect gentleman, allowed him to
go up to the count's room. Robert Bolton returned home just as his
master was at the door; when the landlady told him a gentleman was
waiting there, it flashed instantly into his mind there was something
wrong. He hastily told his suspicions to the count and they ran upstairs
together. Opening the door quickly, they found the prisoner with the
casket in one hand and the watch in the other. There was an odor of
burnt paper in the room.

The count immediately opened the window and called for the police. C.
No. 14 was just passing, and in marvelously quick time he ran upstairs.

"This man has gotten into my room on false pretences," said the count.
"He is a stranger to me. I give him in charge for breaking open my
casket and stealing a watch and ring from it."

"What did the prisoner say."

"He pointed to the watch and ring, and said: 'There they are;' then he
looked at the count with a smile."

"Did he seem frightened?"

"Not the least in the world," was the answer; "just the contrary."

"What happened next?"

"The prisoner told him he must consider himself a prisoner on the charge
of stealing a watch. He laughed aloud and walked away."

The landlady of the house, the policeman and the count all gave the same
evidence. It seemed very clear against him.

"What have you to say?" asked, the magistrate of the prisoner.

He raised his luminous gray eyes.

"Not one word," he replied, in a clear, refined voice.

"What is your name? I see you have refused to give any."

For the first time the prisoner's face flushed crimson, and the count
smiled malignantly.

"My name is--John Smith," he replied, and again the count smiled.

"Your address?"

He gave some number and street which every one knew to be false.

"Your occupation?" asked the magistrate again.

"I have none--that is, no settled occupation," he replied.

"Have you no lawyer to defend you?" asked Mr. Kent.

"I require none," said the prisoner; "I have no defense. All t