"So it is--to myself."

Meyer looked sharply at him. "Why do you want to photokraph my place?"

"For insertion in a magazine."

"Which makkazine?"

"Any that will take the article--I am not proud. It is important that I should make some money. I have seen many interesting reproductions of interiors of the stately homes of England in the periodicals, but never one of your house. Hence my appearance. I hope I may have your permission."

"Why should I krant you bermission?" said Meyer. "I live here in solitude. I do not bring visitors. I do not want dem. Your intrusion is imbertinent."

His visitor flushed. "Sorry if I have annoyed you," he said; "but it did not seem such a great favour to ask. Most people are glad to have pictures of themselves and their houses in the papers."

"Most people are fools, as Dommas Carlyle said. Have you a family?"

"I am not married."

"Dere is no excuse for a sinkle man taking pictures of people's interiors. It is not de work for a man like you. I shall not encourage such tomfoolery. No, I do not give you bermission. But stay. Dere is an orkit from de mittle of Africa of which I should like to have a picture--de _Cypripedium Meyeri_--a new species which I have had de satisfaction to detect. Berhaps you would be kind enough to photokraph it for me, and your journey would not be altokedder lost. Come along.

What is your name, please?"

His visitor handed him a card on which was printed "John Lucas, 140, Brixton Gardens, London, W."

"You have come a long way," Mr. Meyer observed.

"A very long way, sir. Perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me look round your house, even if I may not photograph it. I am interested in domestic architecture and--er--curios."

Mr. Meyer looked intently at his visitor.

"Yes, Mr. Lucas," he said slowly, "I will also show you round my house, since you have come so far, and are interested in domestic architecture and curios. I have blenty of both. Den we will photokraph de orkit."

Mr. Meyer led the photographer through his villa, pointing out its architectural beauties, and indicating the various treasures which it contained.

Mr. Lucas was profuse in his expressions of appreciation. "Are you not afraid of burglars?" he asked.

"I am afraid of noding," replied Mr. Meyer. "Odderwise I should not be here to-day in dis Tuscan Villa. I have gone into de question of dieves, and tink I should be able to meet de situation."

They had made a tour of the rooms, had ascended the heights of the observatory and inspected the electric plant at its base.

"Is dere anyting else you would like to see?" asked Mr. Meyer politely.

"I believe that you collect miniatures. Might I look at them?"

"Come dis way."

In a corner of the marble hall there was a cabinet facing a window.

Meyer stood before it. "See," he said; "I bress dis b.u.t.ton, and it releases de trawers. So."

The shutter flew back, and the drawers were free. Meyer opened them, one by one, and indicated their contents. "Dey are all choice examples of de best masters. Dese are Gosways. Dis is an Engleheart," and so on. He went through the collection till he had shown the last drawer but one.

He was about to close the cabinet when Mr. Lucas asked: "Have you any Holbeins?"

"One," replied Meyer, "and dere was I necklecting to show it to you. Dis last trawer is de most imbortant of de lot." He opened it and drew forth a small square frame. "Here is de latest addition to my collection. A krand Holbein. You notice de blue backkround, characteristic of dat kreat master, and de wonderful thin bainting. You can almost see through it. It is a bortrait of Meyer of Basle, berhaps a relation of mine, berhaps not. It does not matter. It is a fine picture. Don't you tink so?"

Lucas handed it back. "I envy you," he said.

"Dere is no need," Mr. Meyer responded, as he closed the cabinet. "'Enfy no man till he is dead,' said de old Kreek philosopher, and I am very much alife. Now come to de orkit house, and photokraph de _Cypripedium Meyeri_."

An hour later, after taking photographs of the rare exotic from every point of the compa.s.s, Mr. Lucas made his way to the landing-stage, and from thence he rowed thoughtfully across to Bournemouth.

On the following Monday night a boat with a solitary oarsman put off from the mainland, and after several changes of route was successfully beached on the south sh.o.r.e of St. George's Island. Under the protection of the trees its occupant--none other, indeed, than Mr. John Lucas--stealthily approached the Tuscan Villa, which stood out in bold relief in the vivid moonlight.

He gained the terrace, and, keeping as much as possible within the shadow of the bal.u.s.trade and dogs, he crept to the fourth window, the one at which Mr. Meyer was sitting on the preceding Sat.u.r.day.

There is no use disguising the fact any longer. Mr. Lucas was a burglar, and he now proceeded to act after the manner of his craft. After affixing some adhesive material to the pane, he began to cut out a square of the window. The gla.s.s was thick, so the process was long, but Mr. Lucas toiled at it with a patience and perseverance worthy of a better cause. Only once did he desist--to follow the suggestion of a sudden impulse, and try all the windows of the house. But each was fastened, and Mr. Lucas resumed his original labour.

It was fully an hour before he drew out the square of gla.s.s which enabled him to undo the catch inside. Then nearly as long pa.s.sed before the removal of a second square at the foot allowed him to unscrew the bottom fastening.

The window was open at last, and Lucas stepped inside.

It was the second burglary of his life, and he reflected that so far all that had happened was greatly to the credit of his professional abilities. A moment afterwards he was chilled by the later thought that nothing in particular had happened so far, and that the possibilities of the near future were very great indeed.

With his stealthy entry into Mr. Meyer's villa the personality of that gentleman had suddenly oppressed him. At Bournemouth all that day, with the sun shining, and the band playing popular airs, Mr. Meyer had occurred to him merely as an eccentric German gentleman; but now, at something after midnight, in the deathly stillness of his villa, Mr.

Lucas only remembered the Teuton's sharp, decisive utterances, his piercing glances, and his large general reputation for unpleasantness as an enemy. Perhaps it was the sight of Mr. Meyer's empty chair that had brought this train of thought to his mind. The big folio he had been reading was still at its side. Lucas flashed his electric pocket light on the open page. "Love's Labour's Lost" met his eyes. This struck him as ominous.

Lucas pulled himself together. What had he to do with empty chairs, and old folios, and omens? He was a burglar, out for the night on urgent business. Let him attend to it, and keep his dreams and soliloquies for the daytime. He walked across the polished floor, his rubber soles being absolutely noiseless. He raised the heavy curtain, and pa.s.sed beneath it through the archway.

There in front of him was the marble hall, bathed in coloured moonlight.

The fountain played softly to the tones of gold, azure and red cast from the stained-gla.s.s window. If Mr. Lucas had been conversant with Keats he would doubtless have thought of St. Agnes' Eve; but presumably Mr. Lucas did not, for, keeping well to the wall, he stole quickly across to where stood the case containing the miniatures.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "LUCAS DROPPED IT CAREFULLY INTO THE POCKET OF HIS NORFOLK JACKET."

(_p. 218._)]

"You bress de b.u.t.ton, and it releases de trawers. So." He smiled as Mr.

Meyer's p.r.o.nunciation came back to him. He followed the instructions, and the drawers were free.

Cosway and Engleheart did not detain him to-night. He opened the bottom drawer. There lay the Holbein for which Mr. Meyer had recently paid three thousand guineas. Lucas dropped it carefully into the pocket of his Norfolk jacket, shut the drawer, and closed the case.

So far all was well--very well indeed. Only a few yards, a curtain, and a few yards more, lay between him and freedom. Then again there fell upon him a sense of Mr. Meyer's personality. What had that man not done?

He had browbeaten an Emperor, hoodwinked a couple of wily Chancellors, and decimated the ranks of rival pract.i.tioners. Was he, John Lucas, a mere tyro in the burglary profession, able to outwit the smartest man of the day? Had he only to break a window, step across a floor, seize a treasure, and depart?

No--it was impossible. The very ease with which everything had been accomplished was the worst sign of all. "I have gone into de question of dieves, and tink I should be able to meet de situation." Meyer's words came back to him now. He himself was in town--Lucas had seen him depart that morning, to make it absolutely certain--but his myrmidons were doubtless hidden around. An electric shock would suddenly hold him fast, and Meyer's butler or stage manager, or whatever he was called, would appear and wing him--unless the servants were asleep in their master's absence. But nothing was ever left to chance in Mr. Meyer's life or his house. The very silence was eloquent of impending catastrophe.

Again Mr. Lucas reproached himself with nervous folly. "It is only my second burglary," he reflected apologetically. He stepped across the hall, and once more raised the curtain.

"Ah!"

The room, which ten minutes ago was dark and empty, was now brilliantly illuminated, and there was Mr. Adolph Meyer, seated in his chair!