"I believe that Miss Pilgrim is in the grounds, but Mr. Pilgrim has gone across the moors in his motor to shed a tear at the residence of the late Charlotte Bronte. A wonderful man is the boss, my lord. It takes me all my time to file the information he gathers. It will be midnight before I have fixed Charlotte up."

"Your hours are long," said Lord Roker, sympathetically.

"They are; and they are getting longer. Your country is just waking up to the fact that John Pilgrim is here. We had a big mail to-day. Outside proper business there were twenty begging letters from tramps and prodigals, eighteen asking for subscriptions, and two which we could not decipher. Four town councils mixed us up with Andrew Carnegie and wrote demanding Free Libraries. I reply to them all."

"Then I won't trespa.s.s any longer on your time."

Mr. Tullitt pulled out his watch.

"Snakes!" he exclaimed. "I always have fifteen minutes' dumb-bell exercise now to keep me in form. Good-mornin', my lord." His visitor left him standing in position with his dumb-bells.

Now when Lord Roker turned in his chair and first saw Miss Marion Pilgrim he was confounded. When she spoke--and to her beauty there was added an infinite charm of frankness and joy of life--he fell hopelessly in love. Only once before had this happened to him, and, singularly enough, she also was an American--a dark-eyed Boston girl he met in Rome. He had been refused because his position and his prospects rendered the match an impossibility--to her father; for he was not at that time heir to an earldom. Since then he had gone unscathed through the perils of many seasons in many capitals, only to be finally routed while in pursuit of the commonplace profession of a burglar.

That he had aroused any interest in her heart he did not for a moment suppose, but perhaps there might be a remote chance of winning her. If there were, how could he imperil his hope of success by running the risks attendant on the burglary? If she could give him the slightest hope he would resign his membership of the Burglars' forthwith. It was ridiculous to have to rush matters, but he had to know his fate at once.

He could not even put it off till to-morrow, for he knew she was going to Knaresborough for the day with her father.

He met her on the golf links. They played in a foursome in the morning.

In the afternoon they had a round together.

She was in capital form. Her splendid health and energy were a delight to the eye. Perhaps it was owing to this distraction that he foozled some of his drives, and twice got badly bunkered. His play went steadily from bad to worse, and she won by three up and two to play.

"I don't think you were playing your best game," she said as they returned. "It strikes me that you were thinking about something else all the time."

"You are quite right. I never played worse, and I was thinking about something else."

"Something very serious, I reckon."

"Very."

"Is it anything I could help you in?"

"You are very kind, Miss Pilgrim. All day, and most of last night, I have been deliberating on an important step."

"What sort of a step?"

"Whether I ought not to resign my membership of a certain club."

"Is that all?"

"You see, I was one of the founders, and I like it. But sometimes the conditions of membership seem impossible. At any rate, I have felt them so since last evening."

"What are the conditions?"

"I can't tell you them all, but one is that you have to be a bachelor--a confirmed bachelor."

"Well, you are one, aren't you?" she asked gently.

"I don't know. At any rate, I may not always be. In fact, I----"

"Don't you be in a hurry to change," said Miss Pilgrim. "Don't imitate that king of yours. Judging from the doc.u.ment dad showed you, Henry the Eighth wanted to be a bachelor again, and then decided to remain a married man, all in one day. You Britishers are so variable."

"It may seem very absurd, Miss Pilgrim, but I have to make up my mind without delay. And you can help me in the matter. May I--dare I----"

"One minute, Lord Roker," she interrupted quickly. "You ought to be very careful before you think of changing your state. Teddy Robson waited twelve months before I promised to marry him."

"Teddy Robson!" exclaimed Lord Roker.

"Yes; this is his picture." She pulled a locket from her dress, and showed him the miniature of a nice, clean-looking lad. "He's the son of Josh. K. Robson, the Fustic King," she explained.

"Fustic?" repeated Lord Roker, with intense gloom.

"It's a wood that dyes yellow. Dad is the Logwood King, you know.

Logwood dyes black. When I marry Teddy, the two firms will amalgamate, and we shall pretty well control the output of the West Indies."

"I see," said Lord Roker; "or, rather, I hear."

"That'll be in the fall. If ever you come over to the States mind you look us up. Teddy will give you some big game shooting. I guess you like it, whatever you told dad. You've done things. Mrs. Stilton told me at breakfast this morning that you had got a decoration for distinguishing yourself in action."

"Oh, that was years ago."

"Not more than a hundred," she said gravely. "And I reckon you don't let the flies settle much. Gracious! but it's six o'clock, and I've letters to mail. I must run. But don't you be in a hurry about retiring from that club."

"That's the second," said Lord Roker enigmatically, as he watched her vanish, "the second--and the last."

Lord Roker made no attempt to purloin the Bunyan MS. that night. He thought it possible that the indefatigable Mr. Tullitt might prolong his labours on Charlotte Bronte into the early hours of the morning, and, being of a thoughtful temperament, he was unwilling to interrupt them.

He had still two nights at his disposal. The next day he spent chiefly on the links. He did not allow his thoughts to linger regretfully on his hopeless love. He gave his whole attention to the game, and retrieved his reputation by beating the professional's record. In the evening he played his part in progressive bridge with marked success: and then at 1.30 a.m., when the whole establishment was presumably fast asleep, he descended from his bedroom window by a stout rope, and made his way to the wing occupied by Mr. Pilgrim. He found the window of Mr. Tullitt's room, and was busily engaged for the next half-hour in opening it.

He then dropped into the room, and turned on his light.

Three grandfather's clocks were solemnly ticking in three separate corners. The fire was still flickering in the grate. A pile of letters, addressed and stamped, was ready for the post. A batch of correspondence was docketed and endorsed. The waste-paper basket was full to overflowing.

Lord Roker gave one glance round, and then tried the door. It was, as he expected, locked on the outside. He placed some chairs and other obstacles in front of it to impede progress should an alarm be raised, and lit the gas in order to add to Mr. Tullitt's reputation for over-work. Then he turned to the drawer in which the Bunyan MS. was kept. It was locked. He produced a bundle of keys, and finally opened it. There was a doc.u.ment inside, but instead of being time-stained, foxed, and torn, it was modern and neat. Moreover, it was type-written, and endorsed, "Notes on the late C. Bronte, Haworth, Eng., 1904."

Lord Roker turned this out in disgust, hoping to find the Bunyan MS.

below; but he was disappointed. The ma.n.u.script was not there.

He replaced the Notes in the drawer and turned his attention elsewhere.

He opened every drawer and portfolio, looked on every shelf and in every corner, but in vain. There was no sign of the Bunyan MS.

Determined not to be baffled--for his credit as a burglar was at stake--Lord Roker resumed his search, and again went over the ground.

Three times at least was he disturbed--when the grandfather's clocks went off at the hour and the half-hour with alarming wheezes and groans.

When they had finished with 3.30 he had to admit himself beaten. The ma.n.u.script had no doubt been removed to another room. It was desperately annoying, but he had still twenty-four hours to find out where it was, and to get it. He gave up the search reluctantly, made his way through the window, and up the rope to his bedroom.

Soon after breakfast that morning word went round the Hydro that the Bunyan MS. had been stolen from Mr. Pilgrim's rooms--the ma.n.u.script for which he had just paid 2,000.

A hole cut in one of the window-panes pointed to the method by which entry had been made, but no clue to the thief had been left behind. The police had been informed, and a detective was coming.

Only the Bunyan MS. was missing--that alone of the many portable and valuable treasures in Mr. Pilgrim's possession. It showed a literary instinct in the thief which was as surprising as it was unusual, for it would be impossible for him to make any profitable use of his booty without certain discovery. The more one reflected about it the more perplexing it was.