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” Nein, nein !” almost hissed the agonized official. “Go away, sir, go away! It isn’t a cloakroom. John, let this gentleman out.”

The attendant and Mr. Berge were returning from their quest. The inner box had been opened and there was no need to ask the result. The bookmaker was shaking his head like a baffled bull.

“Gone, no effects,” he shouted across the hall. “Lifted from ‘The Safe,’ by crumb!”

To those who knew nothing of the method and operation of the fraud it seemed as if the financial security of the Capital was tottering. An amazed silence fell, and in it they heard the great grille door of the basement clang on the inopportune foreigner’s departure. But, as if it was impossible to stand still on that morning of dire happenings, he was immediately succeeded by a dapper, keen-faced man in severe clerical attire who had been let in as the intruder passed out.

“Canon Petersham!” exclaimed the professor, going forward to greet him.

“By dear Professor Bulge!” reciprocated the canon. “You here! A most disquieting thing has happened to me. I must have my safe at once.” He divided his attention between the manager and the professor as he monopolized them both. “A most disquieting and–and outrageous circumstance. My safe, please–yes, yes, Rev. Henry Noakes Petersham. I have just received by hand a box, a small box of no value but one that I thought, yes, I am convinced that it was the one, a box that was used to contain certain valuables of family interest which should at this moment be in my safe here. No. 7436? Very likely, very likely. Yes, here is my key. But not content with the disconcerting effect of that, professor, the box contained–and I protest that it’s a most unseemly thing to quote any text from the Bible in this way to a clergyman of my position–well, here it is. ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth–‘ Why, I have a dozen sermons of my own in my desk now on that very verse. I’m particularly partial to the very needful lesson that it teaches. And to apply it to me ! It’s monstrous!”

“No. 7436, John,” ordered the manager, with weary resignation.

The attendant again led the way towards another armour-plated aisle. Smartly turning a corner, he stumbled over something, bit a profane exclamation in two, and looked back.

“It’s that bloomin’ foreigner’s old bag again,” he explained across the place in aggrieved apology. “He left it here after all.”

“Take it upstairs and throw it out when you’ve finished,” said the manager shortly.

“Here, wait a minute,” pondered John, in absent-minded familiarity. “Wait a minute. This is a funny go. There’s a label on that wasn’t here before. ‘ Why not look inside ?'”

“‘Why not look inside?'” repeated someone.

“That’s what it says.”

There was another puzzled silence. All were arrested by some intangible suggestion of a deeper mystery than they had yet touched. One by one they began to cross the hall with the conscious air of men who were not curious but thought that they might as well see.

“Why, curse my crumpet,” suddenly exploded Mr. Berge, “if that ain’t the same writing as these texts!”

“By gad, but I believe you are right,” assented Mr. Carlyle. “Well, why not look inside?”

The attendant, from his stooping posture, took the verdict of the ring of faces and in a trice tugged open the two buckles. The central fastening was not locked, and yielded to a touch. The flannel shirt, the weird collar and a few other garments in the nature of a “top-dressing” were flung out and John’s hand plunged deeper….

Harry the Actor had lived up to his dramatic instinct. Nothing was wrapped up; nay, the rich booty had been deliberately opened out and displayed, as it were, so that the overturning of the bag, when John the keybearer in an access of riotous extravagance lifted it up and strewed its contents broadcast on the floor, was like the looting of a smuggler’s den, or the realization of a speculator’s dream, or the bursting of an Aladdin’s cave, or something incredibly lavish and bizarre. Bank-notes fluttered down and lay about in all directions, relays of sovereigns rolled away like so much dross, bonds and scrip for thousands and tens of thousands clogged the downpouring stream of jewellery and unset gems. A yellow stone the size of a four-pound weight and twice as heavy dropped plump upon the canon’s toes and sent him hopping and grimacing to the wall. A ruby-hilted kris cut across the manager’s wrist as he strove to arrest the splendid rout. Still the miraculous cornucopia deluged the ground, with its pattering, ringing, bumping, crinkling, rolling, fluttering produce until, like the final tableau of some spectacular ballet, it ended with a golden rain that masked the details of the heap beneath a glittering veil of yellow sand.