Danby Travers was annoyed. He was one of the founders of the Burglars' Club. His entrance fee had been the temporary abstraction from the Crown Jewels of the Koh-i-noor itself. Two years ago he had kept up his membership by the burglary of the Duchess of Guiseley's emeralds; and now, by the unkindness of Fate or the simple cussedness of his committee, he could only renew his subscription by purloining the Black Pearl of Agni. It showed the folly of becoming the champion jewel burglar of the club.

Of course it was pure coincidence, for only four people knew that he was in love with Mary Illingworth. Mary knew it, because he had told her; Lord and Lady Illingworth, because they had been fatuously consulted in the matter; and he, Danby Travers, because of a stuffy, despairing feeling somewhere in his chest from the moment of awakening in the morning down to the last gleam of consciousness at night. But the Burglars' Club did not know it, nor did they know that Lord Illingworth had told him that in future he was not to cross the baronial threshold; and all because, despite his brilliant record in India and at Hurlingham, he, Danby Travers, was as poor as a chapel mouse.

Therefore he received the mandate of the club with something less than his usual urbanity. But reflection brought a Mephistophelean suggestion of comfort. He had been unable to rob Lord Illingworth of his fairest daughter. He would at any rate purloin his most valued jewel.

The Black Pearl of Agni was world-renowned. During the military operations in the Western Deccan in 1803 it had been looted by a certain Major Illingworth, of the Bengal Native Infantry, from a rich temple dedicated to the Hindoo God of Fire. From that day his fortunes had prospered amazingly. Promotion came for the asking; wealth by marriage and bequest. Influence, social and political, had followed, and a title. Succeeding generations had added to the score. Two descendants of the sepoy major had attained Cabinet rank, and the present peer had won the Derby. The Luck of the Illingworths had become proverbial.

The jewel was kept at Knowlesworth. Travers knew the place well. He had spent a fortnight there, and there he had made love to Mary Illingworth. She had shown him the Pearl; and, because he was to be her husband, had shown him the secret of its hiding-place. Little did he think at the time that the next occasion on which he entered that room would be as a burglar—an amateur one, it is true, but still a burglar.

No wonder that Danby Travers was annoyed. The only justification for his conduct that he could think of was that the temporary loss of the Pearl would probably have a beneficial effect on Lord Illingworth's character.

He had received the secretary's intimation on the Friday morning. He had to show the Pearl at the next meeting of the club—on the following Tuesday night. That gave him four days for the business.

Knowlesworth was sure to be full of visitors, for Lord Illingworth had succeeded a late Master of Balliol in entertaining the most distinguished week-end parties in the country. Travers turned to the Post, certain to find the list. Ah! here it was:

"Lord and Lady Illingworth are having a large party at Knowlesworth, entertaining the Bohemian Ambassador and Countess Polsky, the Duke of Strathpeffer, the Marquess and Marchioness of Bridlington, the Dean of Penzance, Professor Rawson, and others."

"What a crew!" thought Travers. "Wouldn't Strathpeffer be pleased if I came a cropper! I wonder he can go there after Mary's last refusal. I'll wait till they thin a bit. Some are sure to go on Monday, so Monday night is my best time for the job. Now for Bradshaw."

On the following Monday night, Travers took a second-class ticket at Charing Cross in order to minimise the chance of running against friends. From sheer curiosity he chose a compartment in which two singular-looking men were already seated. The weather was by no means cold, yet they were swathed in winter clothing. Thick mufflers were round their necks. Their faces were partly hidden by the wraps, and partly shaded by the broad brims of silk hats built about the time of the Crimean War. But their race was unmistakable—to Travers at least. They were Hindoos—the tall one probably a man of caste, the podgy person possibly a Baboo.

In his interest at coming across these strange people Travers forgot his ultimate objective. He settled himself in his corner, prepared either to join in conversation with, or merely to watch, his quaint fellow-travellers.

On his entrance they had turned their eyes upon him, but they had resumed their conversation. As the train got on its way they raised their voices, and, confident of not being understood, they spoke with absolute unrestraint. Travers, with knowledge derived from ten years' service in the Madras and Indian Staff Corps, was easily able to follow their talk.

"At last," said the tall man, as the train moved out of the station.

"At last," repeated the other. "Buck up. Now is the conclusion of your spacious quest."

"Say rather the beginning. So far it has been easy, despite the horror of mingling with these barbarians. To lose caste was foreseen, but now we enter upon the unknown."

"Nevertheless, I take the liberty of emphasising the necessity of bucking up. To-morrow you will be a thrice happy man, and I will weave a garland of marigolds for your honourable head. Gosh!" This as the train entered a tunnel with a hideous shriek. "It is a taste of the underworld," he added.

The tall man shuddered, and remained silent. As the train emerged his companion gave a very creditable imitation of the whistle and the tunnel.

The tall man smiled sadly.

"Ramma Lal," he said, "I envy you your merry disposition. It was in a good moment that I met thee in Bombay, baboo-jee. You have served me well in guiding me hither, and in enlivening me on the long journey."

"Your honour is pleased to be excessively gracious," said the Baboo with absurd complacency. "Indeed, my tip-top spirits have been of much service to myself and many other honourable gentlemen, and have been extraordinarily admired by English ladies." He pulled out his watch. "In the space of half an hour we shall have arrived at our long-intended destination."

"So soon? Show me the plan again to refresh my memory."

The Baboo produced a piece of paper, over which they bent their heads.

"Here is the railway station at which we shall dismount. This pink streak is the highway-road along which we shall travel, eventually reaching the big brass gates belonging to ancestral home. A little beyond is a diminutive wall, which we ascend and descend. Then we step across the park and round the lake. Here and here. This sepia mark is water. Now we are in the pleasure garden. This is the hinder part of the house. Here is the right wing. The fifth window in the second row. That is your bull's eye."

"Go on," said his companion, gloomily.

"Your honour will divest yourself of polished hat and other garments, which you will transfer to my care in summer house. Here, behold it, painted in vermilion. You will climb up to the window. Inferior but friendly servant has arranged that it shall open easily. Once in the room the deed is as good as accomplished. You know the hiding-place of the jewel."

Travers started. "The hiding-place of the jewel!"

"Yes," said the gloomy Hindoo; "I know it. But Krishna BÜrkut knew it twenty-five years ago, and the SwÂmi RÂm NÂth knew it fifty years ago, and yet another SwÂmi seventy-five years ago, but none of these restored it to the Temple of Agni. All failed in their quest, and never regained their caste. I too shall fail."

"Allow me to have the felicity of indicating at least one point of difference between your honour and gentlemen mentioned," replied the Baboo. "Your honour has intelligent assistant, while enumerated catalogue had not. Have the kindness to point out fly in our ointment. It is distinguished by its absence. The jewel is yours."

"Perish the jewel!" cried the other Hindoo in a sudden outburst of fury. "Why couldn't the Huzoor have left it alone, or have taken another jewel? Why should he have singled out the one above all others necessary to the happiness of Agni? And why should I, of all the priests of the Temple, be chosen to restore the sacred stone? Here, with five thousand miles of space between us, I declare to you, Ramma Lal, I do not fear the wrath of Agni. I call him humbug. I read Shakespeare. I write him an ass. I am doubtful even of Vishnu and Siva."

Travers paid no attention to Ramma Lal's reproachful reply. He was lost in amazement. Here, on the very night he had chosen for purloining the jewel, two other men were on the same errand. Stop. There was a reason for their date. They had mentioned twenty-five, fifty, and seventy-five years. It was evidently an anniversary. Every twenty-five years an attempt had to be made to restore the jewel to the Temple of Agni. Three attempts had already been made in vain, and now, on the hundredth anniversary of the theft by Major Illingworth, another attempt was in progress.

At any rate, he was forewarned. The house was a mile and a half away from the station by the main road on which the Hindoos were going. He knew a cut across the fields which shortened the distance by half a mile. He would gain ten minutes. In that ten minutes he had to obtain the Pearl.

The train pulled up at Knowlesworth station. The two Hindoos stepped out. Travers followed. He watched them start along the road; then he briskly cut across country.

The church clock struck eight as he reached the terrace in front of the hall. From the beginning he had matured only one plan of campaign. He knew the rules of the house, and he would take advantage of them. From eight to nine the men-servants were busy in the dining-room. Anyone could open the main outer door and enter. He might, of course, be seen, and in this eventuality Travers relied upon his being known to allay suspicion. He was in evening dress, and temporarily, at any rate, would strike a servant as being one of the guests.

The nominal dinner-hour was eight. It had been his intention to enter at 8.20 in order to allow for any delay either on the part of the kitchen or the guests. Dinners at Knowlesworth were notoriously unpunctual, and if he entered now he might run into the house party or meet stragglers on the stairs. He must wait. But the Hindoos were marching down the road. Each instant brought them nearer. In ten—no, in eight minutes—they would be in the garden. Yet he dare not enter.

He waited impatiently in the shadow of the great portico. It was now 8.10. He would make an attempt.

He slowly pushed back the heavy door, and entered the vestibule. This was cut off from the hall by big glass doors, and then by heavy curtains. Still more carefully he opened the inner door, and then quickly closed it again. Through the opening had come the sound of voices and laughter. They were gathered in the hall before the fire, waiting for the summons to dinner. So there he stayed, cursing the unpunctuality of the house, and unquietly reflecting that a casual remark as to the present state of the weather might lead to the glass door being opened and himself ignominiously disclosed.

And Mary would witness his humiliation. Nay, she might even be the innocent cause of it. She was within half a dozen yards of him now, separated only by some glass and a curtain. Yet he could not speak to her—could not even see her. Ah! that was her laugh. And that Strathpeffer's raucous voice. Hang Strathpeffer!

It was now 8.15. The Hindoos were in the garden. The situation was distracting. At any moment they might enter the Temple room.

Ah! there was the sound of movement within. The guests trooped past the door. Their voices died away. All was still.

It was nineteen minutes past eight. Travers hesitated no longer. He unbuttoned his top-coat, and, with cap in hand as though he were a guest just come in from a stroll before dinner, he opened the hall door.

No one was in sight. He crossed the hall, and stepped lightly up the stairs. At their head he passed a maid. She certainly took him for a guest.

He went straight down the great corridor, and then branched to the left. It was the third door ahead. He pulled back the panel as Mary had shown him, undid the bolt from within, and entered. The room was in darkness. He struck a light, half expecting to find the Hindoo disclosed. No, he was alone, and the Pearl still there.

It was a room without furniture. In the centre was a replica of the great idol of Agni at the temple from which the Pearl had been looted. The god sat there, smug, cross-legged, and hideous. The eyes fascinated the beholder. The left one was of marble; the right made of a stone worth a prince's ransom—the one known throughout the world as the Black Pearl of Agni. At the god's knees, their holders resting on the floor, were two gigantic candles. Travers lit them.

Then he stepped quickly to the idol, and sought the left hand of the god. He pressed the nail of the fourth finger. The god's right eyelid lifted, and the complete stone was disclosed. Travers quickly abstracted it, released the lid, and put the Pearl in his pocket.

His object was accomplished. But what was that? Listen.

There was a sound at the window. The Hindoo was there—beaten by half a minute.

Travers turned to the door. Then, impelled by an overpowering curiosity to see the end of the drama, he slipped to another window, and got behind the curtain.

There was a faint whistle from below. Hang it, what a fool he'd been! The Baboo had seen the momentary disarrangement of the curtain, and had observed his figure against the light, and now he was alarming his friend. But the latter heeded not. Perhaps he was too excited to understand, or even to hear him.

The sash was raised, the curtain pulled back, and the Hindoo stepped into the room. He was almost naked, and his bare limbs shone with a coating of oil. He took one step forward, and looked up eagerly into the idol's face. Then a cry of despair escaped him. The stone for which he had travelled five thousand miles was not there. He had lost his caste. It could never be regained, since he had failed in his quest. Never again could he see his native land. Under the crushing blow he sank, a comatose heap, on the floor.

The minutes passed, and Travers shifted uneasily behind the curtain. There were sounds from the garden—then approaching footsteps in the corridor. The door was flung open, and Lord Illingworth burst into the room, revolver in hand. The Duke of Strathpeffer followed with other guests, and some footmen. The Hindoo stared dully at them, but did not move. He was promptly seized.

"The Pearl—where is it?" demanded Lord Illingworth.

The Hindoo did not reply.

Lord Illingworth pointed to the empty socket, and repeated the question, but the Hindoo merely shook his head.

"Search him," said Lord Illingworth.

He was searched, but, of course, nothing was found.

Lord Illingworth stood over him.

"Where is the Pearl?" he thundered, but again the Hindoo shook his head.

"Bring in the other man," said Lord Illingworth.

The Baboo entered, limp and crestfallen, in charge of two stablemen. A boy carried a silk hat and some winter clothing.

"Ask him what he has done with the Pearl," said the peer.

Ramma Lal put the question.

"I have not got it. It was not here when I came."

The Baboo repeated this to Lord Illingworth.

"It is a lie," he replied. "It was here an hour ago. I saw it myself."

"The sahib knows that thou liest," said Ramma Lal to his friend. "Tell him a finer tale."

But the Hindoo only protested his innocence.

"What does he say?" demanded Lord Illingworth.

"He says," replied the facile Baboo, "that no sooner had he taken the Pearl than there was the flash of fire and much smoke. When it cleared away the stone had vanished. Doubtless Agni the god had come for his own."

Lord Illingworth blazed with fury.

"He has swallowed it," he said. "We shall have to cut him open."

Ramma Lal translated this terrific threat. The Hindoo gave a yell. Despair lent him strength. With a serpentine twist he slid from the grasp of one of his captors and knocked up the arm of the other. The window was still open. He sprang through it into the darkness of the night.

Lord Illingworth ran to the window, fired blindly, and then rushed from the room. The others followed. Only the Baboo, his two captors, and the boy with the clothes remained.

"Come along," said one of the grooms.

"Stay for one moment, I beseech you," said Ramma Lal, "and let me worship Agni the god."

"None of yer blarney," returned the man. But the other, who was of a romantic temperament, said, "Wot's the odds? Let the heathen do it if he wants."

"You see, gentlemen," said the Baboo eagerly, "it is my very last opportunity. I shall be lifelong imprisoned for the inauspicious event of this evening. It is positively my last appearance in the open. Let me worship Agni as I do in my own land. No Englishman has yet witnessed the entire ceremony. It shall not take long. I will compress my supplications. Five minutes will be ample dispensation."

The grooms looked at each other. Their curiosity settled the matter.

"We'll give you four minutes, so look sharp," said one.

"Thank you," replied Ramma Lal gratefully. "Agni will bless you for your beneficence."

The men released their hold. One closed the window, the other shut the door, and placed himself before it.

Ramma Lal took off his silk hat, muffler, and coat. He advanced to the idol and salaamed low three times. Then he raised his eyes and sang.

Travers knew the song. It was a ribald ditty of the bazaars, and it had as much to do with the worship of Agni as with the laws of gravitation.

He watched the Baboo with increasing interest. He had evidently some ulterior object in view, but what was it? Ah!

Ramma Lal had gradually approached the idol. Still singing, he had bowed his head till it had almost touched Agni's knees. Travers hardly saw the movement of the hands. Only an Oriental could have done it so swiftly. The two candles were suddenly extinguished, and the room was in absolute darkness.

With loud imprecations the two grooms rushed to where the Baboo had been—to collide with each other, and incidentally bring down the huge candlesticks. Then recovering, they dashed about the room in search of their prisoner, only to seize the boy who had the clothes. Finally one of them struck a light.

They were alone with the boy. The window was again wide open.

The men leaned out. There was no moon. The lights of the searchers flashed in the distance. They turned blankly to each other.

"There'll be pop to pay for this," said the boy, who was still suffering from rough usage in the dark. "You'll both jolly well get sacked."

"All your blamed fault for lis'nin' to his tommy rot," said the one man savagely to his companion.

"Who'd have thought he was so cunnin'?" rejoined the other. "Wot's the good of talkin' here? Come out an' look for him. He may have broke his neck," he added hopefully.

Again the lights flashed in the garden, and then gradually extended beyond. Travers waited until he was sure there was no one below. Then he emerged from his recess, and followed the Indians through the window. Leaving the park to the searchers, he kept to the main avenue, and soon gained the high road. A ten-mile walk brought him to Dorton junction, where he just missed the last train to town.

The sun was high when Danby Travers reached his rooms, and it was late in the afternoon when he awoke. The morning papers and his letters were at his bedside. He at once opened one of the former, curious to see if there was any reference to the events of the previous night.

Good heavens! What was this?

"Thank Heaven, Mary's safe!" ejaculated Travers. "I hope she hasn't had a great fright." Then, after a pause, "And Ramma Lal caught, after all! He deserved a better fate. What an uncommon good thing I got the Pearl! If I hadn't taken it, the Indians would have been well on the way to Bombay with it by now, and if neither of us had taken it, the stone might have been burnt up. Would it, though? There mightn't have been a fire at all. Rummy notion that Agni should blaze the whole show in revenge for my desecration! It shan't interfere with my feelings of satisfaction. I'm a public benefactor—an Illingworth benefactor, anyway. I shall explain this to my lord at an early date. Hullo, what's this? A lawyer's letter. I can tell 'em by the smell. What's he threatenin' this time?"

But it wasn't a threat. It was simply an intimation that under the will of Colonel Thomas Archer, a distant relative lately deceased, he, Danby Travers, succeeded to the whole estate, a bequest made "on account of intrepidity shown in the recent IrÁwadi campaign." The income therefrom, the solicitor added, was estimated at about £3,000 per annum, and he would be pleased to have an expression of Mr. Danby Travers's wishes with respect to the same.

£3,000 a year! Travers jumped out of bed and executed a series of gyrations. £3,000 a year! That meant Mary. But did it? It was a fortune to him, but how would Lord Illingworth view it? Well, if he didn't like it he needn't. Mary and he were now independent of everybody.

He made his way to the Burglars' meeting in a blur of happiness. He was rather late. Other men were there already, and they one and all congratulated him.

"Aren't you rather premature?" he asked. "You haven't seen the Pearl yet."

"Bother the Pearl," said Altamont. "We mean the title."

"What the deuce are you drivin' at?"

"Haven't you seen the papers?"

"Crowds of 'em, and lawyers' letters too. My head's buzzin' with 'em. What is it this time?"

"Your cousin tumbled down some stone steps in Vienna last night, and you are Lord Travers now—that's all!"

Danby sat down. This final stroke of fortune was too much for him.

"I can't say I'm sorry," he blurted at length. "Bertram wouldn't have been sorry if it had been me. And I'm glad about the title because of——. Here, I say, you fellows, what's come over the world since last night?"

"The Black Pearl of the Illingworths has changed hands, we hope," said the Secretary, who wanted to start the business of the evening.

"The Black Pearl has, and the Luck of the Illingworths went with it. They've had a fire, and I've got a bequest and a title. Perhaps you fellows'll be more superstitious in future. That's what brought my luck, anyway." Saying which, he produced the Black Pearl of Agni.

To his unbounded joy and immense surprise Lord Illingworth received the missing stone from London during the course of the next day.

The Indians had been remanded for a week, pending further inquiries, and as they had obviously not stolen the jewel after all, Lord Illingworth declined to prosecute, and they were released from custody. An unknown friend interested himself in the natives. One of them, a Baboo, was sent back to Bombay by an early steamer. The other, who refused to return to India, thanks to the same unknown benefactor, was put in the way of earning his living by teaching Hindustani. He has since gone over to the Mohammedan faith.

With repossession of the Pearl, good fortune came once more to the Illingworths. In making excavations consequent on rebuilding the Hall, a coal seam was discovered, which eventually doubled the family wealth.

The Black Pearl of Agni is now protected from burglars by many quaint electrical conceits. When the next anniversary comes round any Indian visitors will have a very lively time of it.

Later on in the year a marriage took place between Mary, younger daughter of Lord and Lady Illingworth, and Danby, ninth Baron Travers, a nobleman who had been mentioned in despatches in the IrÁwadi campaign, and who was not unknown at Hurlingham. His clubs were the Marlborough, Brooks's, and the Burglars'.