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Mr. Ledbetter strapped the trunk and bag, and returned the stout man the keys. It was then ten minutes to twelve, and until the stroke of midnight the stout man made him sit on the Gladstone bag, while he sat at a reasonably safe distance on the trunk and held the revolver handy and waited. He appeared to be now in a less aggressive mood, and having watched Mr. Ledbetter for some time, he offered a few remarks.

“From your accent I judge you are a man of some education,” he said, lighting a cigar. “No–DON’T begin that explanation of yours. I know it will be long-winded from your face, and I am much too old a liar to be interested in other men’s lying. You are, I say, a person of education. You do well to dress as a curate. Even among educated people you might pass as a curate.”

“I AM a curate,” said Mr. Ledbetter, “or, at least–“

“You are trying to be. I know. But you didn’t ought to burgle. You are not the man to burgle. You are, if I may say it–the thing will have been pointed out to you before–a coward.”

“Do you know,” said Mr. Ledbetter, trying to get a final opening, “it was that very question–“

The stout man waved him into silence.

“You waste your education in burglary. You should do one of two things. Either you should forge or you should embezzle. For my own part, I embezzle. Yes; I embezzle. What do you think a man could be doing with all this gold but that? Ah! Listen! Midnight! . . . Ten. Eleven. Twelve. There is something very impressive to me in that slow beating of the hours. Time–space; what mysteries they are! What mysteries. . . . It’s time for us to be moving. Stand up!”

And then kindly, but firmly, he induced Mr. Ledbetter to sling the dressing bag over his back by a string across his chest, to shoulder the trunk, and, overruling a gasping protest, to take the Gladstone bag in his disengaged hand. So encumbered, Mr. Ledbetter struggled perilously downstairs. The stout gentleman followed with an overcoat, the hatbox, and the revolver, making derogatory remarks about Mr. Ledbetter’s strength, and assisting him at the turnings of the stairs.

“The back door,” he directed, and Mr. Ledbetter staggered through a conservatory, leaving a wake of smashed flower-pots behind him. “Never mind the crockery,” said the stout man; “it’s good for trade. We wait here until a quarter past. You can put those things down. You have!”

Mr. Ledbetter collapsed panting on the trunk. “Last night,” he gasped, “I was asleep in my little room, and I no more dreamt–“

“There’s no need for you to incriminate yourself,” said the stout gentleman, looking at the lock of the revolver. He began to hum. Mr. Ledbetter made to speak, and thought better of it.

There presently came the sound of a bell, and Mr. Ledbetter was taken to the back door and instructed to open it. A fair-haired man in yachting costume entered. At the sight of Mr. Ledbetter he started violently and clapped his hand behind him. Then he saw the stout man. “Bingham!” he cried, “who’s this?”

“Only a little philanthropic do of mine–burglar I’m trying to reform. Caught him under my bed just now. He’s all right. He’s a frightful ass. He’ll be useful to carry some of our things.”

The newcomer seemed inclined to resent Mr. Ledbetter’s presence at first, but the stout man reassured him.

“He’s quite alone. There’s not a gang in the world would own him. No!–don’t start talking, for goodness’ sake.”

They went out into the darkness of the garden with the trunk still bowing Mr. Ledbetter’s shoulders. The man in the yachting costume walked in front with the Gladstone bag and a pistol; then came Mr. Ledbetter like Atlas; Mr. Bingham followed with the hat-box, coat, and revolver as before. The house was one of those that have their gardens right up to the cliff. At the cliff was a steep wooden stairway, descending to a bathing tent dimly visible on the beach. Below was a boat pulled up, and a silent little man with a black face stood beside it. “A few moments’ explanation,” said Mr. Ledbetter; “I can assure you–” Somebody kicked him, and he said no more.